Step by Step, Day by Day
by parabolical
Summary: Arthur Kirkland, single father, battling with two growing boys and the demands of his work. Enter a Belgian lodger willing to take them on - but she's not everything she first appears to be, and even his unremarkable neighbourhood shrouds secrets. [Ongoing, fluffy UK/NZ/AUS family. EngBel; guest-starring sassy neighbour Vietnam.]
1. the man who feigns deafness

**Notes: **Wooh, first fic! A good old mix of mystery and romance. Allegedly. I'll try not to make it too dreadful in either respect - Vietnam's presence adds a dose of grounding cynicism - and feedback is also appreciated, haha. Some notes about the set-up itself: I've seen usually family!AUs cast America and Canada as England's children, but for a change the 'terrible twosome' are Australia and New Zealand. I imagine they'd be more of a handful! Their (estranged) mother is a very vague OC that doesn't actually appear, because giving her a character would really be playing with history, even in the human-AU setting.

**Names: **Lan Ngô = Vietnam. Benjamin = Australia. Caleb = New Zealand. Élise Verhulst = Belgium.

* * *

**Step by Step, Day by Day**

* * *

**I: the man who feigns deafness**

* * *

"I assure you it won't happen again, Ms. Ngô," says Arthur Kirkland to his neighbour, and he'd sound far more sincere if he hadn't made such a promise the last time. And the time before that. And the numerous times prior to both the most recent.

She must have got wise to his little ploy by now because her only response is to inhale sharply through her nose, the flare of her nostrils not unlike that of a goaded bull. The last thing Arthur needs is an argument – God knows he gets enough of them – but all hope seems lost when Lan's steely silence gives way to an introductory, "_Well_-"

And that's when the cause of Lan's irritation decides to hop back over her fence.

"Found it!" declares the radiant nuisance, a scrape yet again present across the bridge of his nose. He costs Arthur more in adhesive plasters than he does in food, with no lecture about _not climbing the bloody trees _enough to put him off.

"That's lovely," Arthur replies, voice appropriately flat. "Where, exactly, is your brother?"

The battle-wounded nose crinkles in disgust, Benjamin's eyes rendered momentarily cross-eyed along with it. Really, Arthur should know better by now than to assume Benjamin is any guardian of Caleb's welfare.

"It's not the quiet one's fault," Lan interjects, elbow resting in her palm while her wrist flicks with indignation. "It is the _brash _one-" A nod to Benjamin; "-that insists on trampling my _hoa mai_ shoots. Perhaps, Mr. Kirkland, you would consider keeping him leashed?"

At that, Arthur can't quite resist a snort of amusement, despite the positively filthy look Benjamin gives him in response.

Benjamin isn't so much _brash _as trusting; he thinks nothing of leaping into Lan's garden whenever the mood takes him, especially when he's managed to propel his and Caleb's rugby ball over the fence – the way he holds said ball now, proudly tucked beneath his arm, is fully indicative of the mission he's undertaken. Caleb himself, on the other hand, is far more wary than his sibling, and what people mistake for _quietness_ in him is far closer to the quality of caution.

That's perhaps why Caleb appears at Arthur's side without warning, tugging gently on the hem of his father's shirt while clearing his throat with a rumble. "Benjamin did it."

"Benjamin did _not_!" insists Benjamin, deciding to hold the rugby ball possessively against his chest instead. "You threw it too far."

"And you headered it."

"That's an illegal move in Rugby, Ben," Arthur tuts, though the light smile tugging at his lips hardly expresses any degree of dissatisfaction. "Why don't you two leave Ms. Ngô to her own devices, hm? I'm sure she'd very much appreciate not having the impromptu company of two troublesome little boys."

"I am _eight_," Caleb declares – much to the irritation of Benjamin, who reaches out to seize the younger lad by the crook of his arm.

"We have a _game_ to finish," is the brown-haired boy's excuse, though Arthur still isn't quite sure what his son's games of two-man rugby entail. It doesn't seem very practical and whenever he watches them from the kitchen window, chasing each other around their townhouse's garden, Caleb seems to take greater delight in aiming for Benjamin's head.

The pair race away into their home as though they've nothing more to answer to, Arthur watching their clumsy hurried steps with a curious blend of pride and embarrassment. As much as he adores them, he can't quite keep a hold on them, and he thinks, with a twinge of discomfort, that he knows _exactly_ why such is the case.

"I'm sorry," he says eventually, when he turns his attention back to Lan's bobbing head across the fence separating their respective driveways. Lan doesn't drive – there's a lawn there instead, and it's just as immaculately kept as her _hoa mai _plantation would be, should Benjamin refrain from stomping over it on a weekly basis.

The joys of being childless.

Arthur snaps back to attention just in time for catching Lan's smirk. "You should be."

"Blunt as ever, miss." Arthur's hand gravitates to his pocket, fumbling for what's contained there. "I can pay for the damage, it's not a problem – I really _will _have a word with them this time, I'll take away their throwing-toys, I won't let them leave their bedroom for a month, I'll limit their television hours so the only thing they can possibly access is that channel with all the nature documentaries—"

"It's not about the damage, Mr. Kirkland," Lan insists, raising a hand to silence his rambling. "At least, not _this _time."

"Really?" That makes a pleasant surprise, and the sensation of being able to slip his wallet away again is one he chooses to savour.

"It's about your boys."

"It's _always _about my boys."

"You are not dreadful neighbours," she continues. "And you know me well enough to be aware I wouldn't say that lightly. But, as I do only live next door, I'm perfectly capable of hearing every shout and scream that takes place under your roof, and I must admit I'm not always impressed."

"They're a handful," is Arthur's excuse. It's the only excuse he has.

This wasn't something he'd received prior preparation for; he does his best, but eight-year-old scoundrels are difficult to keep tabs on. His wife had been much more of a natural, coupling both parental skill with unconditional love – a love she ended up sharing with far too many people, but he seems to be the only one affected by any consequences.

"You need a good wife."

Arthur grins. "Is this a _proposal_, Ms. Ngô?"

"Hardly." She glances back over her shoulder, briefly, as if the pain of viewing what befell her plants is quite enough to put her off the extended Kirklands for life. "I can't say stodgy English solicitors who swear by Bentley cars do much to win my affections."

"They're _good vehicles,_" he says with a huff. "If I could _afford _ a functioning one, it would be even better, but my _darling _cubs are fond of massacring my funds."

"How middle-class." She doesn't look particularly impressed – the day she accused him of being part of the oppressive bourgeoisie marked an interesting turning point in their relationship – but she thankfully says nothing more on the matter. "Where I'm from, the unit of a family is important to the wellbeing of the children and, quite frankly, your male incompetence is ridiculously overwhelming."

"But you know how magnificently progressive I am," he says, grin resurfacing. "_That_, and you might recall how my last foray into the wonderful world of marital bliss ended with the supposed love of my life being the bed-warmer to everyone else's."

"_I_ didn't sleep with your wife," Lan says, as if it's some kind of achievement. "At the very least, Mr. Kirkland, you could find someone to take care of them while you're occupied with your cosy burgher employment – I believe Mr. Williams across the street would appreciate having his perpetual babysitting duties removed from his shoulders."

"Matthew _likes_ looking after my boys," he says, but he doesn't sound sure.

"I'm sure he does," she concedes. "He just doesn't like the damage they inflict while he's doing so."

Defeated, Arthur emits an exasperated sigh. "_All right_. I'll look into it. And I'll make sure to give them the usual seminar concerning how to respect your property."

"Please do." She doesn't often smile, not properly, but Arthur is well aware she views him as a charity case enough to warrant one, delicate hands dropping from their perch on the fence. "Enjoy your afternoon, Arthur."

"Same to you, Ms. Ngô."

He watches her go, retreating through her white door to her pastel home; she's lucky, he thinks, a creature without the responsibilities of children or marriage. Regardless, her family is panoptic, a relative or three always popping 'round to visit her – and it's for this reason that Arthur considers the possibility she might yet be correct.

* * *

He doesn't have time for a relationship.

With the demands of his career and the demands of his sons, he doesn't have time for _much,_ anyway. The closest he has to a hobby is religiously scanning obituaries in the local newspapers, if only to make an internal average age for death by cardiac arrest. He adores Caleb and Benjamin, and sometimes they even seem to _return_ the sentiment, but the half-arsed hugs they grant him when they want him to buy them something serve as no substitute for a relationship proper.

Occasionally, he'd quite like to come home and drape around someone willing to accommodate his worn affection. Occasionally, he'd quite like someone who can discuss things with him that aren't Pokémon-related, or whatever the latest preteen craze happens to be. Occasionally, he'd quite like to be awoken via morning-breath kisses from someone he'd been elbowing in the side all night due to unforgivable snoring.

He has a penchant for the terribly domestic and Lan certainly wouldn't approve.

Then again, would Benjamin? Would Caleb? There's always the worry they'd feel their father wasn't paying them enough attention, even if he _did _know where he could find eligible young bachelorettes.

It wouldn't be fair to expect any woman to simply take on the task of the Kirkland lads, anyway. If they were too much for their own mother, how could he possibly place the burden on some poor girl that hadn't known them before?

This is why he has considered, in his more desperate moments, marrying Matthew across the road, but it would only be for logistical reasons.

No, no; their current situation simply won't do. A nanny. Archaic as it might be, that's the answer.

* * *

It's a Monday when he places an advert in the local newspaper – the one with all the obituaries – but it's on Friday that applicants begin appearing upon his doorstep. He doesn't _describe _it as a 'nanny', of course, adverse to making Benjamin and Cabel out to be Peter Pan's lost boys, but he does mention the fact there'll be children rushing about the place; any potential housekeeper would be grateful for the warning.

The house needs regular maintenance in any case. There's no point in asking Caleb to put his stuffed livestock away once he's done playing 'farm'.

Applicant the first is a woman named Michelle. She offers 'traditional East African discipline', and though he's not sure what that would entail he thinks it might do his sons some good, parting with her in a relatively cheerful mood. As promising as _she_ seems, however, it only goes downhill from there.

Applicant the second is a man named François. He's apparently a student in search of work on the side, immediately claiming to have a natural affinity with children. He promises (rather cryptically) to provide his own uniform, which – in reserved honesty – is not a sight Arthur finds himself looking forward to.

Applicant the third is _terrifying,_ allegedly named Natalya though Arthur doubts it's really true. There's a thick Slavic lilt to her voice and a bearing of hostility in her gaze, despite her insistence she's a natural with household work – Arthur finds himself glad his boys are at school, certain she'd find her way into their nightmares had they been there to meet her.

Visitor the fourth is Ms. Ngô herself, announcing her attendance with a knock only moments after Caleb and Benjamin have arrived home. There's a drizzle of rain beyond the front door, season outside unforgiving to those traipsing through it, and she's been rendered slightly damp in the time she's taken hopping across to her neighbour's home.

"I saw your advertisement," she smugly declares. "How goes your luck?"

"Dreadful," he replies. "Would you like to come in?"

Lan arches a brow beneath the strands of frizzed hair now framing her vacant expression, uttering in monotone, "Of course. My brother only just left and I wouldn't have come here if I didn't expect entertainment."

"I appreciate your support," he says, equally flat. "I'd offer you tea, but I know you'd only insult it –here."

He moves aside and she steps into his hallway instantly, making no measures at hiding her thorough examination of the photographs on his wall. Leaving her to it, he returns to the living room, shooing Benjamin and Caleb to the kitchen (once he's promised that _yes_, they can take as many biscuits as they like, and _no_, they're not to disturb him and the scary Vietnamese lady).

"_Scary_?" Lan repeats, following Arthur to the somewhat askew chairs once her juvenile adversaries have departed. "And to think, I had their welfare in mind."

"Such a grand suggestion it turned out to be." He flops into his usual fauteuil, asks, "Aren't you going to sit down?"

"I prefer to stand. And I won't be staying long – dishes to clean – but I felt it was only fair to check on your progress." She pauses. "Or lack thereof."

"The first girl I saw seemed all right," he says, staring blankly at the opposite wall. "But she exhibited signs of possessing a temper even I can't hope to rival and I think exposing my boys to it would be unfair, shocking as you might find the notion."

"They're not wholly horrible children," she admits. "It's not just them I worry about."

"Oh?" He raises his head, smiling bitterly. "And what criticism of my parenting do you wish to exchange today? Perhaps setting up a handy blog would enable you to impart your wisdom sooner."

"I'm sensing sarcasm, but I expect that from you by now – I simply meant the house could be _tidier_." She goes quiet again, then adds, "I never said you were a bad father."

He can't think of anything to say, embarrassed by even this lukewarm praise, and checks his watch to distract himself. Four in the afternoon. Maybe this was always going to be a hopeless venture.

Lan doesn't say anything as she turns towards the window, her somewhat short figure cutting a thin shape before it. It's not an interesting view – the occasional car trundling through the road, Matthew across the street walking his big white dog, looming trees along the pavement intermittent in their golden leaves and reddened branches. Post-new year, in suburban boroughs, is never as beautiful as it's made out to be on seasonal stamps.

He wishes the rain threatening to pour would at least stop drizzling.

The sight that pops up next is one that Arthur only jumps at because Lan does first, her whole body jerking while she takes a fervent step back. A tiny yelp escapes her throat, gone just as quickly as it came, and it takes Arthur a moment to notice what startled her – but when he does, he emits a far louder cry.

There's a girl, her palms pressed up against his window along with her nose, neat white teeth in full display as she grins through the glass.

"_Jesus Christ_!" comes his articulate response. "What on _Earth_ does she think she's doing? I'm quite certain this counts as trespassing – who _is_ she?"

He looks to Lan, expression contorted into _unsurpassable_ outrage, but when Lan says nothing he pushes swiftly past her to the hallway instead. He left the door unlocked – perhaps not the best idea – and it saves him time as he flings it open to march outside, fully prepared to deliver a powerful argument in favour of an Englishman's home being his castle.

As it turns out, he gains no opportunity for uttering a single angry word.

"_Hallo_!" the girl calls, Arthur freezing mid-motion on his doorstep. She scurries over to him, her hands clasped out in front of her, and stands before him on the gravelled pathway with a wide, expectant grin.

The ability to speak abandons him; when her face isn't squashed against a window, this stranger is a _goddess _and he couldn't possibly bring himself to shout at her. Or perhaps that's exaggeration, but there's such lyricism he could impose on her; flaxen hair, with rain-pronounced curls, frames a cherubic face, and he's received plenty of comments on his own green eyes but hers leave him staring, at both her gaze and the smile over plush pink lips.

Maybe it's just refreshing to see someone dressed in lilac that isn't François, her hands neatly resting against the waist of her shift-dress.

"I'm here about housekeeping," she softly declares, and it's enough to make him snap to attention. "I'm not too late? I'm sorry if I scared you but I couldn't tell if anyone was home, you see."

"Most people _knock_," Arthur drawls, before he can help himself. "But you're not too late, no – just in time, actually. I was about to abandon the whole bloody business and the spawn that constitute my offspring just about got home."

The gentle tap of Lan's footwear alerts him of her approach, and he glances back over his shoulder to give her a questioning stare. She dismisses it, peering past Arthur to the impromptu aspirant – Dutch, or maybe Belgian.

The girl must note said added scrutiny because she ignores Arthur's comments entirely, asking only with a timid gesture to Arthur himself, "This is your husband?"

"_No_." The swiftness of Lan's reply almost makes Arthur snort with amusement. "_No, _this man is definitely _not _my husband. In fact, I live next door and I intend to now depart - good luck with the impending awkward interview."

"Thank you," Arthur replies mechanically.

"I didn't mean _you_," Lan clarifies, but she's slipped past him before he can protest.

* * *

As it turns out, the girl is not really much of a girl at all. He'd expected her to be just past adolescence, the energy of her appearance misleading, and despite how young Arthur may think she looks she is really twenty-five. Her name is Élise Verhulst, one Arthur makes her repeat a few times because her accent is, at first, difficult to decipher, and she's indeed from the Belgian shores he'd suspected before.

He made her tea; she hasn't touched it.

"I'm a traveller," she says, and from the way she struggles to meet his gaze she doesn't seem keen to elaborate. "To _keep_ travelling, however, I need funding, and if I stayed near London for a while longer I'd be able to save up my pay."

"From this, you mean?" he says, vaguely motioning to the kitchen's open door behind them.

She tilts in the armchair she's occupying, seemingly staring straight through Arthur while she examines the brief glimpses of Benjamin and Caleb making a mess of the place. She'd been only too happy to grin at Arthur before, but she hasn't been so jolly since he'd let her into his home, only smiling now at the sight of his sons.

"They have your... _eyes_, sir."

He grimaces, quite used to hearing the brow comparison by now. "So everyone says. If you w_ere _to receive the job, is there anything I should know about, Miss Verhulst?"

"I am Élise." Her gaze directs itself back to him, while she bends back the slender fingers of one hand against the other. "If I am to be allowed into your household, I don't need to be treated so formally – but it's right if I address you as... Mr. Kirkland, is it?"

"No," he says, raising an incredulous brow. She's certainly more cryptic than his other applicants. "Well, yes. But if that's how you want to play it, I'm Arthur. The one with the brown mop is Benjamin, and the one with feather mop is Caleb – the boys, I mean. Don't be fooled by their innocent faces."

Élise laughs. "Oh, I have a younger brother, Mr. Kirkland – no, no; _Arthur_. I know the tricks of little boys by now, and I'm _thoroughly_ prepared for the messiness they leave in their wake."

"Indeed." He can't stop himself from smiling, taking a sip of his own tea. "The post I'm offering is just glorified babysitting, really, but I can't keep freeloading off my neighbours or they'll chase us from the street with pitchforks."

"That's all right." She bites her lip, something he watches closely, the sink of white into pink. "I... had an offer to make _you, _in fact, if you'd like to hear it."

"Go on."

Her hands freeze in their motion. They clasp instead, tightly enough to make her knuckles turn white, and she speaks like he's placed her on a timer.

"If I was to, say, stay _here – _and I'd provide everything I needed for myself simply from my pay, I promise – I could be here to look after your boys all the time. I wouldn't bother you, I'd stay in my room, or go out somewhere if I can – but I just need somewhere to _stay_. I've called in too many favours and now I'm not sure what to _do_, until it's time for me to go home; I have my papers, if you wish to see them – and it would benefit us both, wouldn't it? I've worked with children before and I'm not much bother – I only have _this_."

She taps the toe of her shoe against a red, suede suitcase, leant against the side of her chair. It's not particularly big; Arthur hadn't even noticed it at first, his estimation suspicious that it's the sort of bag ideal only for weekend holidays.

Completely ineffective for a traveller.

Arthur eyes her with the brand of silent suspicion Caleb's taught him, the only thing he knows for certain being the plain fact he doesn't believe her. She seems to notice, visibly paling – it's Caleb himself that saves her skin.

By now, he's more biscuit-crumbs than boy, though it's most likely Benjamin that caused it. He tumbles in from the kitchen, all curly-haired smiles with his ruffled primary uniform, making his way towards Arthur's chair with the intention of tugging at his dress-shirt's sleeve, despite the woefully sticky trail his fingertips conduct.

"Is the scary lady gone?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper; though he gives Élise a glance, he refrains from passing such judgement on her.

"Yes, yes, she's gone," says Arthur, inelegantly taking back his arm. "I thought I told you to eat something with your brother."

"I did eat," he says, softly proud. "And you only said we couldn't interrupt with Miss _Ngô_ – this is a different lady-friend."

"I don't have '_lady-friends'_—"

"_I _do. Erika from school invited me to her birthday party."

"But," Arthur begins, and it's as far as he gets before Benjamin leaps up behind Caleb. Though he feels like having a good old moment of despair, Élise's fresher laugh draws Arthur's attention, a cheerier sound escaping curved lips.

"These are your boys?" she says, as they're scrabbling up onto the sofa beside their father. His only thought is to how chocolate-coated they're going to leave the upholstery, despite Élise going on, "They're very sweet, Arthur."

"A common misconception," he mutters. "What do you blighters _want_?"

"Her." Benjamin nods towards Élise without directly looking at her. "She doesn't _look _like a bogan. She's our new Matthew, yeah?"

"I don't think 'Matthew' is a title of occupation and – hold on, what on Earth is a _bogan_?"

"She _seems_ nice," Caleb airily declares, arms finding their way around Arthur's waist. His head rests against Arthur's side, legs sporadically kicking out in front of him; his gaze settles fully on the Belgian awaiting address as he continues, "Are you nice? We need someone nice."

Benjamin sagely nods. "Dad beats us, see. Sometimes leaves us in the basement for weeks on end. Feeds us the neighbours if we've been really good, but most of the time it's just fish-heads."

Arthur sharply turns his head, glares in response. "We don't have a basement, Benjamin."

"We should get one," Caleb insists. "Matthew has a basement – it's where his dog lives."

"Can you find a basement?" Benjamin demands, still watching Élise. "Or, y'know, food that isn't takeaway every other night? That'd be okay, right Dad?"

"I'm just too _busy_ to cook," Arthur says, primly – a memorised excuse.

"I assure you," Élise says, with a hand resting against her smiling lips, "I am _very _nice. I will be able to make you all sorts of food, if your father lets me stay... and I'm sure big, growing _men_ like yourselves are fond of Belgian waffles?"

She'd been odd before, but perhaps it was simply shyness; after all, Arthur himself isn't a stranger to interview jitters. When Caleb begins eagerly nodding, and Benjamin shifts as if to rush across to her lap, Arthur realises his decision's been entirely made for him.

* * *

Next morning, as Arthur's taking his morning cigarette just outside the back door, Ms. Ngô appears behind the fence with a fairly formidable stare.

"I heard shouting and screaming last night," she says, by means of greeting. "But it didn't sound like an argument."

"That's because it wasn't." He regards her with a grimace. "You're now looking at a man with a live-in _nanny, _as I'm apparently from California in the 1950s, and she delights the boys past acceptable mild entertainment."

"Vassalage reborn," Lan replies with a tut. He can't tell if she's serious, but she does go on, "If it keeps them away from my garden, I won't complain. Much."

"It wouldn't be you if you didn't complain. I completed a good few documents without them spilling coke everywhere, at least, so I'm perfectly content with this sort of arrangement."

"_Humph_." She twists her mouth. "Enjoying your newfound capacity for neglecting your children?"

"Absolutely," he says, and he grins.

* * *

**-tbc-**

* * *

**Postscript: **Updates should be relatively speedy. The title is from Belgian writer Emile Verhaeren's _L'âge est venu, pas à pas, jour à jour_; the chapter title from Vietnamese scholar Khuyen Nguyễn's _The man who feigns deafness_.


	2. envy queens their state

**Names: **Mentioned in passing, Erika = Liechtenstein.

* * *

**II: envy queens their state**

* * *

Cigarette freshly stubbed, Arthur makes his way back to the bustling kitchen, hands resolutely shoved into the pockets of his trousers. It's eight in the morning – far too early for wearing anything aside from boxers – but it wouldn't do to be dressed so casually around a woman he hardly knows.

This is a concept that has not yet reached Benjamin.

"_More,_" is the declaration Arthur's met by, as he looks towards the table for the sake of locating its source. Benjamin's seated atop it, as chairs are apparently too lowly for him, and he's boldly decided to go sans shirt.

"You shall receive more once you've finished what you _have_," Élise swiftly replies, the spatula in her grip an excellent tool for tapping the nub of Benjamin's nose with. "If you scoff down too many eggs, you'll get sick anyway, and then where would we be?"

_Eggs_. The smell is enough to induce delirium, but Arthur would feel dreadfully uncomfortable asking for any when she's supposed to be getting to know the twins.

So, instead, he turns to his topless boy, deciding not to question where the other half of his pyjamas went.

"Where's Caleb?"

Both Benjamin and Élise look to him, but it's Élise that responds, addressing him with a smile and a gesture.

"His room," says she, doing so curtly. "He went to change his clothes, said he could do it without any help; that isn't wrong, is it?"

"Not wrong, no," he replies. "He can dress whenever he likes, though they usually don't bother until about lunchtime on a Saturday – I'm surprised they bothered getting out of bed."

She laughs, still the epitome of _pretty_. All the same, he feels like the epitome of lechery, intently examining every movement as she lifts her slender arms, fingers weaving the bright red of a ribbon into her looping locks. It's not a crime to watch her, is it? She's going to be living under his roof; he'll have no choice but to look at her.

But Benjamin – in Benjamin's usual manner – spoils it.

"_Dad,_" he hisses, "it's _rude _to stare."

"I wasn't staring!" Arthur quickly protests, extending his arms as if to haul the troublesome brat from the table. "I'd say it's far more rude to be in a state of undress around a lady, hm? Go join your brother."

"But it's too _hot _for clothes_-_"

"It's February and we are in Britain, Benjamin, it is anything but 'hot'."

Though he grumbles as he goes, Benjamin surrenders enough to slide down from the table, bestowing a particularly venomous glare upon his father before he leaves. Arthur sighs, deciding not to mention it – only to find Élise is now the one watching _him_.

"I'm sorry about that," he says, when it's apparent Élise isn't going to speak. "I appreciate you putting up with them last night, by the way. I understand you need a place to reside and I'm perfectly content with that being your main priority – but if I'm not always home when they get back from school, it's peace of mind to know someone's here."

He wouldn't leave a total stranger care of his children, after all. A lodger; that's what Élise is, on the surface.

She only smiles, but it isn't wide enough to match the one she gave Benjamin; her cheerier smiles so far have always been for the boys. She may well be pretty and wonderfully polite, but she is most decidedly uninterested. Arthur pushes aside his momentary fantasy – God, shagging the nanny would be too uncomfortably Victorian – and pads towards the kettle instead.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you. I... was hoping I could talk to you, some more. Now they aren't here."

He turns, leaning back against the counter. "You're perfectly welcome to talk to me even if they are, but I understand if some issues are a tad sensitive... is something the matter? I know the spare room's currently a bit bland, if that's the problem-"

"No, no." She raises a hand, smile unwavering. "I don't need much. I am grateful for what you're giving me; this is really the perfect location for what I needed." Her gaze shifts to the window behind him. "Your home is a lovely one, Arthur."

Not that Arthur would say so. His home is one of Surrey's modern monsters, created only to fit the demands of city-worker sheltering; the walls and furniture are greyscale everything, with dabs of personally-picked beige to offset the rest.

"Yesterday," he begins, unsure if he can betray his curiosity. "Yesterday. You mentioned you didn't intend to stay in the country for long?"

"Oh, I never said _that. _I just – I don't want to stay here _forever, _and I do have some things I need to take care of, but – I'd be here long enough to help you, I imagine. In return for what you're kindly doing for me."

"I'm not doing much. If you continue thanking me for the very little I _am _doing, I'll feel guilty it's not enough; honestly, you're doing far more for me. Money isn't a problem... within reason."

"I have no need for money," she insists, lifting a hand once more. "You're very sweet, Arthur, but that's not what I wished to talk to you about."

"Forgive my assumption, but I can't fathom what else you'd require."

She looks at the floor, smoothing imaginary creases in the skirt of her dress – violet, same as yesterday's. He swallows, silent until it's uncomfortable.

"If I upset you, I apologise-"

"No, no, you said nothing wrong; I just wanted to thank you properly, that's all." Her head raises, gaze meeting his. "I feel I was cold with you yesterday and it bothered me before I went to bed. I don't want you to believe that I'm ungrateful."

"I see," he says with amusement, hand-waving her concerns away. "You're very welcome, madam, and I hope the boys don't eventually make you think this apparent blessing is really cosmic punishment."

Her smile resurfaces, lips pressed thinly, white. "Punishment is the _last_ thing I'd call it."

* * *

While punishment is the first thing Arthur would call it.

Benjamin does eventually emerge in clothing, but this fabled event isn't witnessed for long before he disappears into the house's nooks and crannies. It's especially inconvenient because he's stolen Caleb's shoes ("My _favourite _shoes, Daddy"), the pair Caleb absolutely _must _be wearing if Arthur wishes to take him to the park.

He only suggested it because Élise needs time to to settle in. That, and it's a test; with Lan keeping an eye on the Kirkland house from the comfort of her own, it should be relatively easy to ensure Élise doesn't run off with any furniture.

Living only on the outskirts of the city has its benefits, their street descending into a hollowed patch of thickets. The park there consists of the usual suspects – seesaws and roundabouts and everything else designed to capture the short attention spans of the under-tens. Caleb and Benjamin don't wait for their father to catch up with them, unceremoniously flinging forth the gate to race inside ("Because you're _slow, _Dad, slow and _old_").

Arthur accepts such cruel abandonment, moving to occupy the nearest free bench before one of the many circling mothers seizes it first, their piranha gazes more concerned with where to place their rears than what their children are doing.

He's well aware he looks out of place.

Perhaps it's because Caleb and Benjamin shriek louder than the other children put together, their energy surprising while they terrorise their favourite playthings (the slide, the swings, the monkey-bars – Arthur knows them well). It's a cold sort of Saturday, the sky a sharp enough blue for him to entertain the notion he'd cut himself, should he lift his hands to it.

He's not sure how long he indulges himself in fantasy, but he's just about decided which Tudor monarch one particular cloud resembles when Caleb's _whining_ disrupts his attempts.

"_Dad,_" says the voice, and then, just in case the message hadn't gone through, "_Daa-aaa-aaa-aaad_."

Arthur sits up, snaps, "_What_?"

"I fell off the jungle gym."

"What a surprise."

"I cut myself."

"That was silly."

"Because Ben _pushed _me."

Arthur frowns. "Did he really push you?"

"Yes." Then Caleb appears to reconsider, pulling a grotesque expression of concentration. "Maybe."

"Then he didn't push you, and you've only bumped your knee a bit."

"But it _hurts-_"

"You're not crying, so I don't think I have to amputate just yet."

Sensing he's not going to get anywhere, Caleb merely smiles. He clasps his hands in front of him, staring up at his father with an almost pensive air, then asks (with some hesitation), "Can I sit with you?"

"Of course you can," Arthur replies, "but wouldn't you rather be playing? Where's Ben, anyway?"

"The swings."

Arthur looks towards the swings in question and, sure enough, it's where Benjamin happens to be. The boy's eternal aim has always been to finally propel himself right around the top bar one day, but he's so dreadful at gaining momentum Arthur doubts there's anything to worry about.

"I don't suppose he's providing you with much amusement."

"He's ignoring me. Like _always._"

Arthur smiles. "Not always. He cares a great deal about you, you know."

"Then he should show it." Caleb hauls himself onto the bench beside Arthur, positioning himself on his hands. "It doesn't matter what he thinks, anyway – he's just jealous because _I_ got invited to Erika's party and he didn't."

"Ah, yes, the elusive Erika. Which one's she, again?"

"_That_ one."

As if to demonstrate, Caleb waves towards something, and the something turns out to be a little blonde girl in a stuffy pink dress. She waves back, just for a moment, unable to afford any longer distraction from the game of hopscotch she's engaged in with a gaggle of other girls.

Arthur snorts with amusement as Caleb goes on, "She's very nice."

"I'll bet she is."

"She's not a _lady-friend, _though, not like I said. Ben told me what that means but I haven't hugged her or anything so she can't be."

"I wouldn't listen to everything Ben says," Arthur replies, furrowing his brow. "You should take into account that he's the creative mind behind spider-toast, so he's not the most reputable source of worldly information. If he says anything else just tell me, all right?"

"Yeah," Caleb says, before falling silent. It's not uneasy, sounds of chatter reverberating through the play-park serving as noisy enough, but Arthur still feels the need to gently pat Caleb's knee.

He's met by a hand over his, Caleb's gaze settling on him in an almost investigatory manner.

"There was _one _thing he said, I think. If you want to know."

"It depends on whether or not it's something little boys should be repeating." Arthur wiggles his fingers, or at least tries to. "I'm sure you'll tell me anyway, so you don't need to keep me captive, lad."

"Sorry," Caleb says, and takes to tugging at his scarf instead. "It's... It's because Élise is here."

"Élise, hm? Tell me, what do you think of her? I wasn't so sure she'd get along with the pair of you, not at first, but you seemed to enjoy whatever story it was she regaled to you before bed-"

"I like her," Caleb declares. He's smiling. "She's easy to talk to, and she knows a lot of fun things, but what Benjamin said is – well. Are you going to _marry_ Élise?"

Arthur can only stare.

Unused to such examination, Caleb shies from it, fiddling with the scarf's tassels by means of distraction. "See... I know you said you didn't know her before, but what if you did? What if she's been your _lady-friend _for ages and you're going to marry her now she's moved in?"

"That's preposterous—"

"And if you didn't know her, say. What if you wanted a woman to move in so you could marry her, but she doesn't want to be our new mum—"

"She's really just a _tenant_."

"–so she takes us out into the forest and leaves us there when you're at work?"

Arthur can only shake his head, simply because he's realised how ridiculous the entire notion sounds. He hardly knows Élise yet, and probably won't get to know much more about her over the course of the next few months; it's just a nice distraction to imagine she'd ever really care too much about her impromptu landlord.

He realises Caleb's expecting some kind of assurance when he receives a tap on the arm, amusement shifting to pricking guilt at the sight of the lad's expression. He's concerned, while Arthur's dismissive.

"Oh, come of it," he says, though not unkindly. "How often, really, do you hear of a man marrying his _lodger_? It's a fictional construct, the stuff of dreadful late-night sitcoms; she's there because she needs a roof over her head and just so happens to have the spare time for dealing with _you_."

With that, he pats the top of Caleb's head – and Caleb is not amused.

"You've never seen The Sound of Music? _That's_ based on a true story; Ben said so."

"My life is _not _The Sound of Music. To begin with, yourself and your brother don't perform spontaneous musical numbers for my entertainment."

"Élise has to teach us first." Caleb grins like he's got the upper hand, slapping his palms against the bench with excitement. "She sang yesterday – just a little bit, but it sounded good."

Arthur pauses. He can't prevent the gnaw of suspicion arising in his stomach, padding out a pause of deliberation by adjusting the hem of his jacket.

"Do you _want _me to marry Élise?"

"What?"

"Well, no; not Élise in particular, I worded that dreadfully. But if I _did _find someone – God knows how I'd manage it – wouldn't you be upset? Even if they were cordial to you, and even if they entertained you."

It's a question Benjamin wouldn't quite grasp, not in the manner Arthur intends it, but Caleb's more perceptive than even Arthur gives him credit for.

"Don't know." He wraps his arms around himself, head still bowed. "I don't really remember Mum."

Arthur has nothing more to say.

"Run along," he says, with a gentle ruffle of Caleb's hair. _Her _hair. "You don't want to waste your time here nattering with me about nonsense, hm? And you can tell Benjamin I have no immediate plans for acquiring evil step-mothers, too."

A bright laugh breaks from Caleb's tongue, body leaping from the bench without protest. Arthur half-expects a hug, or something within the scope of familial affection, but instead he receives a rather cryptic thumbs-up and a worryingly sly grin – they're exposed for a mere moment before the haze of the playground drags Caleb away.

Deciding he can afford to walk around for a bit, if only to warm himself, he gets to his feet and examines the space before him. Intermittent concrete islands hold the apparatus pitched for children, but the tufting grass around them crunches beneath his feet in satisfying fashion. Frost adorns the ground; it's February and still cold enough to snow, should the weather take an unfortunate turn.

The discussion of family isn't one he wanted to broach, and for good reason. _They're too young_, he tells himself, when he ever thinks of mentioning it. They got through it all right, the disruption of the family Arthur had thought would last through their adulthood - but it would be selfish for him to move on, still.

He stares down at his shoes while he paces in front of the fence, thoughts settled on a familiar loop of gnawing regret. He only lifts his head again when he hears his name, culprit looming over the gate just a few steps ahead.

"_Hallo_!" calls Élise, as if her arrival isn't awfully timed. Leant over the park gate, she offers a lazy wave.

Arthur grimaces, perfectly capable of seeing the irony. He's just glad she didn't overhear Caleb's concerns.

"Hello, there," he mechanically responds. "I admit I wasn't expecting to see you, but I was _just _talking about you, in fact; you must have good intuition."

"Oh?" She smiles, though mirthless. "Saying nice things, I hope."

"Nothing subjective. Were you looking for me?"

"Yes, in truth," she says, with a tilt of her head. "It's good you're here because I couldn't think what other park you might have gone to. I have unpacked my things and arranged my room, if you wanted to come back – but I was actually going to ask about dinner."

"Dinner?" Arthur tips back his sleeve, sparing a brief glance to his watch. "Bit early to be thinking about that, isn't it? If you're looking for restaurant recommendations..."

"I am sure I could find local maps if I needed to," she swiftly interjects. "No, I was asking about _your _dinner. You want me to make it, don't you? I'll have to fetch the ingredients so you should make any requests now."

"I see," he says, and the flush of warmth through his core would be pleasant if it wasn't from embarrassment. "But no, that's not – that's not part of the arrangement, I assure you. You don't need to make us anything."

"But Arthur!"

"Why the scandalised tone?" He adopts a lopsided grin, elaborating, "Contrary to whatever Benjamin might've told you, I do a passable job of looking after myself."

"It was your neighbour, actually," Élise says. "She told me you might need help with... things, and there's a recipe I've been meaning to try-"

"_Ah_. So you met Lan." He shakes his head, well aware she was never going to be the greatest ally – but his new lodger's exposure to her scathing critiques can't exactly end well. "Things? I'll assume she told you I need help with _everything._"

Élise nods, slightly too enthusiastic. "But! I _can_ help you! It's not like I've really got much else to be doing, here, and it's... what's the English for it, I wonder? A _good deed._"

"I've been managing until now, so I'm sure I can take care of the little beasts when I'm at home." He flashes a bitter smile, adding, "I appreciate your efforts at feeding said beasts this morning, however."

"Did they enjoy it?" Élise chirps, leaning further across the gate. "I think they did, but I can never be sure. I don't mind cooking for you, or your family, Arthur; you don't know how much you're doing for me!"

The tips of his ears burn with embarrassment. Arthur hazards a glance towards the nearest gaggle of mothers, anxious they might be poised for circulating rumours he's acquired some kind of mail-order bride, and replies in a hushed tone, "Don't be silly. I'm not the pinnacle of altruism you believe me to be, but I suppose I wouldn't be adverse to you making something—"

"Good!"

"—with the understanding that you let _me_ provide the food tomorrow, _madam_."

Élise huffs as if he's insulted her, but the sight of it only gives him reason to grin again, wider. Maybe he judged her incorrectly.

"All right," says she, "fine. But I will make such a banquet, _sir_, that you might find yourself wanting to dissolve your own deal."

Arthur arches a brow, a gesture he doesn't deliver lightly. "Is this a challenge?"

"No." She steps back. "Maybe."

"A challenger must always be steadfast in their contest, madam."

"Then it's a challenge!" Her hands clap together, eyes gleaming with mirth while she goes on to insist, "You won't regret letting me. You'll find it so delicious you'll be begging for me to stay forever, you'll see_._ It's an epiphany on a plate."

He can't help it; he laughs, a rough wheeze of a noise he's always been embarrassed about emitting, every shake of his frame beyond his control. She doesn't seem to mind, however – quite the opposite, because her gaze is still lambent when she begins a backwards march through the botany behind her.

"Don't forget!"

He doesn't reply, watching her go; the last flicker of violet and blonde through the greenery.

* * *

When Arthur decides, one cold half-hour later, that it's time for the three to go home, Benjamin decides quite the opposite. It takes another half an hour to retrieve him from his attempts at hiding (half of that spent coaxing him down from the monkey bars), but it's still only midday when they finally trudge through the Chez Kirkland door.

Casting aside his air of insurgence, Benjamin instantly runs for the stairs.

"Take your shoes _off_ when you enter the house," Arthur wearily calls, as he nudges the door shut behind him with his foot. "I've told you what treading mud through the place does to the carpets-"

"Whatever, Dad." He does, at least, flop down to remove them, balanced precariously on the middle step. "I wanna see _Alice_."

"Alice?"

"The new Matthew."

"Oh, _Élise_. I don't think she's in at the moment, but that's a good point – when we wish to enter a lady's room, what do we do first?"

"Put on a shirt, I _know._"

"I was going to say knock, but you raise a valid issue."

Arthur hangs up his jacket, turning to find Caleb standing there – he's holding his scarf towards his father expectantly and, with a sigh, Arthur assigns it a peg of its own.

"Thanks," Caleb says cheerily, bouncing back onto his heels. "What now?"

"I don't know, do I? Élise has something planned for later, apparently, but I can turn on the telly if you like."

"Nah," Caleb says without missing a beat. "We're playing rugby."

Benjamin angles his head, cradling his muddy sneakers while he makes his way downstairs again. "We are?"

"Yes." Caleb waggles his fingers. "Keys?"

For a moment, Arthur narrows his eyes, only to grimaces as he replies, "All right. But you are not, under any circumstances, to propel the weapon of mass destruction you call a rugby ball into Ms. Ngô's garden – understand?"

"_Yes_, Dad," Caleb sighs, but it's enough to convince Arthur to hand over the aforementioned key for the garden. "It's almost like you don't trust us."

"Gosh, really? I have work to be doing, so don't toss it through the office window, either."

"That happened _once_."

"Quiet, Benjamin."

The pair rush by either side of Arthur's person, and he stands in momentary bemusement before trudging towards the stairs himself. It's not often the chance for being productive arises while he's at home and he intends to seize it, locking himself within the box room long converted to a study.

His current case is one of divorce. He thought he'd be more upset about it, reading over his client's documents while attempting to identify with the statements she'd given him, the concerns over her property and the safety of their daughter – it's always difficult with children involved. He knows that much from experience but now, it doesn't bother him.

Not as much as it used to.

Outside his office, nevertheless, it's not all doom and gloom. He's so engrossed in his scribbling (cross-referencing legalese and Googling phone numbers) that he doesn't hear Élise return; she's quiet about it, but the boys certainly aren't about greeting her, their shriek loud enough to make him nearly drop one particularly heavy tome onto his unsuspecting fingers.

"_Bastards_," he mutters, though he doesn't move to welcome her back.

She's just a lodger, after all. She'd find him if she needed him.

* * *

Or so he thought.

It takes about an hour for his detached resolve to fall apart, because the shrieking downstairs hasn't resolved itself as he assumed it would. By now, he can't tell if they're laughing or crying amidst unintelligible shouting, and he briefly considers the possibility she might be torturing them before deciding he'd best simply check.

Not that they intend to let him into the kitchen.

Élise must have heard him on the stairs because she's standing there by the time he reaches the bottom – all the signs of culinary activity are etched across her frame. Her hair's raised in a loose bun, hands lodged firmly in the front of a cookery apron, and she'd be an image of gentle domesticity if it wasn't for the formidable grin stretched wide across her face.

"No," is all she says.

"No?"

"_No_."

"I fear we're experiencing an error in communication."

"No," she firmly repeats. "You want to enter the kitchen, don't you?"

"That would be nice."

"No, then. I won't let you in just yet."

"Forgive me," he says flatly, "but this _is _my house, and it sounds like you're slowly massacring my sons in there. I believe I have every right to be concerned – this dinner of epiphanies isn't going to consist of them on a plate, is it?"

"Of course not!" she says with a scoff. "That's for Christmas."

"Right." He's not entirely convinced she's joking.

"Your boys have been very helpful," she goes on, "and I am sure you'll be proud to see what they've accomplished. I can't take all the credit, but you'll like it!" She smiles instead, less _predatory_. "I'll earn my place here yet."

It doesn't matter how many times he tells her; she seems to think he's owed. He sighs, head lolling back for just a moment, then dips back again to address her.

"So those were the legendary sounds of Caleb and Ben being productive, hm? I thought I'd never see the day."

She _pouts_, and it's something he finds himself staring at because it's certainly not something Lan would ever do. "No, no! You don't sound excited! It was difficult for me to find everything, you know; you could fake it a little."

Her sudden energy is baffling. He can't tell if she's being rude or otherwise, but he's far too amused to care.

"I apologise, in that case. I've been looking forward to eating something potentially without salmonella, but I must remind you that you're banning me from my own kitchen, madam, and quite without warrant. What on Earth have you got the boys doing in there?"

"The diabolical act of setting the table," she retorts. "It has to be perfect, because then you and I-" She makes appropriate hand gestures, "-will be excellent friends. You people say it, don't you? The way to an Englishman's heart is-"

"-through his stomach, yes." Arthur shakes his head, though not in disagreement. "You're really quite confusing, I hope you realise, but you've convinced me. I'll wait if you'd like me to."

It turns out he doesn't have to, Benjamin's head popping around the doorway with a grin to rival Élise's. His cheeks are streaked with something in the manner of war-paint, but at least it looks edible.

"Dinner, _mijn vader, _is served."

Arthur grimaces, his gaze settling first on Élise. "Have you been teaching my son Dutch?"

"Maybe."

She doesn't wait for his judgement, reaching to seize him by the wrist, and he finds himself unable to deny her the act of dragging him across the hallway.

The aroma alone is enough to make him salivate, a flavoured blend that submerges more and more of him with every hurried step. It smells like béchamel, mostly, butter and milk airily parading above the residue of vegetable-steam and well-done meat.

He pauses in the doorway (partly because it's then that she lets go of him) and once he's had a lungful of its scent he directs his line of vision to what's lain out across the table.

Caleb sets down the last dish amidst the others, a proud arrangement of mussels still contained within their shells. There's a board of rustic loaf surrounded by bowls of chips, the thin continental types Benjamin tends to favour; verdure adorns plates around the outside, but they're hardly bland, stuffed tomatoes contently coupled with chicory and chervil and parsley. If she'd added any more stew-pots he wouldn't know where to fit them all, and Arthur is suddenly incredibly, painfully aware of how _hungry_ he happens to be.

"Good?" asks she.

"_Blimey_," says he.

With that, Élise emits something akin to a laugh. "I _win_! Oh, and whatever you don't eat, I can box for your neighbour; I promised her I would so it's really not a problem."

"Food," announces a floury Caleb – and Benjamin takes it as Grace, seizing a fork to make a start on those chips.

"You should take what you want before they do," Élise says, patting Arthur on the arm. "I am victorious, but I'll spare the loser from famishment as consolation..."

"How noble of you," he drones. "You didn't have to, you know – but I'm grateful all the same. And I'll pay you back for the groceries if you like-"

She huffs a laugh, staunchly resting her hands against her hips as she says, "_Yes_, please! Now eat, eat! I won't stop until you're fat and I've earned my keep."

Grinning, he accepts the plate she offers him, and he doesn't drop his display of mirth even when Benjamin aims a block of Brussels cheese towards his face.

* * *

**-tbc-**

* * *

**AN: **Oh wow! I was surprised to receive any feedback on this at all, in all honesty, and so quickly, too - your comments make my day. I apologise if this chapter seems a bit rushed, but I figured I should write something up while still on holiday.

Some notes; the title's from a poem by Mary Chudleigh (_The Wish_); "_mijn vader_" is simply Dutch for "my father", though it did give me a certain layer of understanding as to why Star Wars characters are named the way they are. Which is why Benjamin remembered it, no doubt. Until next time!


	3. baroque account

**III: ****baroque account**

* * *

Sundays are for sleeping in – a concept lost on Benjamin.

Usually, though, he ventures to wake Arthur at some time around eight, more often than not via leaping across his stomach. Past the discomfort of being woken prematurely, Arthur would have very little objection to such a method, if not for the fact he still feels soft and sluggish from indulging in something of a feast the night before.

As it stands, his waking noise is an anguished groan.

"_Up_," commands Benjamin, stretched over Arthur's belly in the manner of a contented cat. "Get up! And gimme your ears 'cause I've got something important to say."

Arthur does not get up, nor does he delegate ownership of his ears, but he does rest himself on his elbows enough to peer curiously down at the boy occupying his abdomen. Benjamin stares back, expression vacant for just a moment more before he takes on a wide grin; it's Arthur's cue to grimace.

"_Goedemorgen_."

"Pardon?"

"_Goedemorgen,_" Benjamin repeats, the lift of his inflection indicative of complacency. "It's a word."

"I've gathered that, yes – Dutch, perchance, or Martian?"

"Dutch! Alice taught me."

"_Élise_. And did she also tell you to viciously assault your sleeping father for the sake of ruining his lie-in?"

Benjamin tilts his head as if in thought. "Nah. But I was gonna do that anyway."

Arthur sighs, though it's all for show. He can't say he minds either of his boys tottering in to address him, even if he _has _considered putting a lock on the door to his bedroom before.

"Lovely," he says, reaching to ruffle the choppy brown of Benjamin's hair. "Now kindly remove yourself from my person so I can go back to sleep."

"Get up!" Benjamin again insists, despite the following roll he engages in. He flops, supine, next to his father on the cold side of the king-sized bed; Arthur's always slept better on the right.

Brow quirked, Arthur turns his head to face him. "Why should _I_ get up if _you're_ not getting up?"

Benjamin smiles again, hands clasping over the small arch of his paunch. No matter how much he rushes about the place, he can't seem to shift that puppy fat - at least he's deigned to wear a shirt.

"Maybe 'cause you're meant to get us breakfast while we laze about, _père_."

"I think Élise has well and truly established occupation of the kitchen, lad – and I'm not sure how I feel about you adopting Dutch as a second language, either."

Benjamin snickers. "That one was French."

"_French_!" cries Arthur, finally propelling himself into sitting. The blanket gathers around his waist, cross-legged beneath it while Benjamin's own legs kick as though he's cycling. "French! A bloody _travesty_ if there ever was one. Perhaps I should be having words with this treacherous Élise."

"I told her y'didn't like French," Benjamin happily clarifies, "so she taught me what it was-"

"A conspiracy, then! Under my own roof, too."

Arthur's manner is hardly one of sincerity but Benjamin seems to believe it is, mimicking his father by hauling himself up. They exchange a solemn glance, both well aware of what's to follow, and Benjamin hardly has time to reply before Arthur strikes, seizing him first by the sides to then tickle them.

"_Help_!" Benjamin immediately squawks, legs thrashing from the edge of the bed. Arthur's not ticklish – save his wrists – but Benjamin most certainly is, his clattering laugh reduced to a breathless wheeze within moments.

(Oh, they don't always get along. _I hate you, you made mum leave, I wanna do it by myself – _there's nothing like a child to put one's flaws into perspective.)

The door opens, in the corner of Arthur's vision; he feels slender arms snake around his shoulders before he hears any statement of introduction, though he doesn't have to check to know it's Caleb. The boy's cry of "_Murder_!" coincides with Arthur's final barrage, if only because he allows Caleb to pull him away from Benjamin with a sleepy grin of acceptance.

"All right, all right; I'll get up," he says, faux-grumbling. Caleb seems to accept it because he takes to gnawing on Arthur's shoulder instead, Benjamin bouncing quite happily to the ground.

Arthur only speaks again to ask, "Hasn't Élise fed you?"

"She sent me to get you," Caleb mumbles. "Both of you, actually."

"Eggs?"

"Eggs."

"Excellent," Arthur says, rolling back his arm. "Would you be so kind as to release your prisoner, cub?"

"I guess," Caleb replies, and he doesn't let go of Arthur so much as he slides away, a boy-shaped waterfall cascading from the mattress. Arthur knows better than to question the behaviour of the pair by now, padding away from his bed to retrieve his dressing-gown (or _bathrobe, _as Benjamin insists); he's still not yet comfortable with the scandalous concept of Élise seeing his pyjamas.

After leading the way and taking great relish from it, it's Benjamin who flings open the kitchen door, the makeshift dining table again housing food enough for three. A house alive with the scent of cookery is a house alive indeed – but the sight of Élise is a _far_ superior sensory experience.

"_Goedemorgen_!" she chirps, a word Benjamin happily echoes. She moves to stand before the Kirklands in the doorway, hands resting in the pocket of her apron; the frock she wears beneath is a yellow thing of summer standing, her hair just as yellow and rendered damp, left down to dry. Her locks have begun creeping into coils where they'd usually be flatter, wispy things he'd fancy batting at like a cat would.

Arthur bristles to clear his thoughts. He isn't sure whether to compliment her or the food, garbling instead, "The toast look nice today."

Élise blinks. She most likely blinks often, of course, but she manages to make it look _unique_, her eyelashes a long, crashing flutter – saddening though it is for such lovely eyes to go hidden for even a mere moment.

(He's aware his thoughts are wayward.)

"Thank you," she says eventually, tone hesitant, a smile creeping over her lips soon after. "But I won't mind if you say nice things about _me_ either, sir."

"I'll bear that in mind, madam," Arthur replies – while Benjamin decides to make it worse with some impromptu vomiting noises.

Thankfully, Élise only rolls her eyes, passing the latest plate of fried goods into Benjamin's snatching grip. Benjamin ceases his display to sequester a fork from the cutlery-drawer, stabbing at whatever he can skewer for bringing to his wee mouth.

It's an almost fascinating display (_feeding time at the zoo_) and Arthur finds himself staring, to be removed from his stupor by a tap to his shoulder.

"Um," says Élise, as she lowers her hand. "I hope you don't all mind that I used your shower, but I _did_ bring my own shampoo-"

"You'll find I cleverly deduced you had by the state of your hair," Arthur retorts. "You're welcome to use it when you need to."

"_I_ need to," Benjamin interrupts, his statement one of clear value. "Haven't had a shower since..." He lifts his hand, counting days off on his fingers until he reaches a conclusion of, "...the last one."

"You _do _stink," Caleb helpfully offers.

"Take a shower once you've eaten your breakfast." With a manner of annoyance, Arthur points towards the plates, their contents waiting patiently for their turn at touching teeth. "Élise was kind enough to cook it for you and I'm definitely not going to reheat it when it goes cold."

"But Arthur!" Élise says, as she elbows his side – _gently_. "I made it for you, too."

He stares down at her, and though he inquiries: "What about yourself?", he quietly realises her intention when she grins up at him like she wishes to devour him first.

"Why," she says, still, "would I eat in competition with men when I could have my _lion's_ share before they so much as wake?"

Arthur chuffs his beguilement, just as Benjamin slams his fists down against the table with enthusiasm.

"I'm a _man_!"

"I don't think that's what she meant, Ben," Arthur mutters, though he presses the issue no further. Instead, he sheathes his hands with his pockets, bristling when he realises Élise's eyes remain on him. "May I help you?"

"Should I _feed_ it to you?" she coos. "Would you have it then?"

"Perhaps if you made train noises."

"_Choo-choo_." She gently ruffles her damp hair, then freezes her hand, speaking next as if reciting from a book. "The first locomotives ever imported to Belgium were of English design and manufacture."

He can't think why she'd mention such a thing. Briefly, he glances towards the table to seek some kind of clarification, but the boys themselves are far more engrossed in their breakfasts than conversation between father and housekeeper.

So he says, "I'm not a train-spotter."

"Train-spotter?"

"You know – the lunatics that like to take pictures of railways, if that's what you were thinking. The model trains strewn about the house are _Caleb's_, you see, because he enjoys crashing them into things."

"I never said you were!" Élise insists – and then giggles. "I just think it's _interesting_. That wasn't strange, was it? Benjamin told me you like history, that's all, so I thought-"

"Did he, now." Arthur frowns, suddenly conscious of his conduct. "Military history, yes – but I'm not Basil Fawlty."

"Who?"

"You know. _Don't mention the war!, _and all that."

Élise doesn't say a word, opting instead to seize his elbow and quite without warning, too; he's startled enough to protest but she manages to get there first.

"I don't mind!" she says. "It doesn't bother me. I come from a lineage of soldiers – I have an ancestor who fought in the Belgian Revolution itself!"

He gawps at her, mindful of the fact his eyes are far too wide to be acceptable. But he can't help it, not when he has a pretty young thing dangling from his arm while spewing historical knowledge – under any other circumstances, he'd be more than pleased by such a turn of events, yet he can't when it's Élise. She _wants_ him to like her, wants urgently for him to approve of her; she's so very keen to stay in his house and he can't imagine why. He isn't the reason, his stilted affection not something she's pursuing. The smile she's giving him is stretched and forced, entirely false.

Deciding to risk it in spite of all else, Arthur offers a marginally more genuine grin. "Your ancestor, then. Did he fight on the side of the Dutch?"

"How rude!" she cries, and the fake little smile becomes a terrible sham. "Do the English not claim to be gentlemen?"

"I'm not convinced we do," he replies, "but I'll try if you'd like me to. Though I can't imagine you're going to let me fetch something for dinner this time as we agreed-"

"Don't be so foolish! And you're going to eat something now, too." She scrunches up her nose, swaying lightly on the spot. "You're far too skinny and it upsets me."

He watches her pattern of movement, enchanted by one particular shift of her hips, a gentle bounce forward while she rests on her heels. When she rises to her toes, rhythm restarted, it breaks the momentary spell that left him so quiet.

Arthur frowns, but not because of her.

* * *

They went around the South Pacific, once – for a holiday.

It was something of a cruise, with Benjamin quite enjoying the Sydney stopover while Caleb felt more partial to Auckland. Arthur enjoyed the whole trip (though he complained, naturally, about everything) and his wife found great pleasure in visiting the ship's steward after dark.

In retrospect, that trip was around the time their marriage fell apart.

All that adultery didn't lead to it; not at first. It certainly became a factor when he actually found out about it, but he'd _realised_ one night, when the deck had been immaculately decorated in the manner of a dancehall, some sort of jazz band performing crooner melodies. He can't remember what they played but he remembers it was maudlin, both arms around his wife while she danced with him like she meant it, watched him like he knew something.

But he knew nothing – of the affairs, the insincerity. He'd always been far too lazy for anything other than monogamy and he'd assumed, in the manner of Shakespearian fools, that sailing around the southern equator would somehow bring them closer together, would have her swooning into his grasp like she'd never begun ignoring his calls.

(His own wife, refusing to speak to him. Oh, he'd hardly been perceptive.)

That isn't what told him, however:

She'd turned her head when he tried to kiss her, and he'd kissed her cheek instead but she passed up on granting response. The band behind them didn't stop in horror but it felt like his heart assuredly did; he'd risked stumbling over his next step for her while she didn't falter in the least.

"You're far too _skinny_," declared she suddenly, when she finally graced him by actually looking at him. She'd resumed stepping mechanically in turn, gaze settling next on something over his shoulder.

And that was it. That's when he understood.

* * *

Today is the day of learning Dutch. Later, when he's again retreated to the sanctuary of his office (after changing clothes, that is), Élise brings an unprompted mug of tea and an unprompted greeting to accompany it.

Knock, knock; "_Goedemiddag_."

"I assume that means good afternoon," Arthur says, raising himself from hunching over his desk.

She lingers in his doorway, wordlessly, clutching the mug against her chest like it's precious while the steam tickles her chin. Her gaze overlooks him, however, seemingly examining everything else within the room.

"You're welcome to come in," he says eventually, when he realises she has no intention of simply dropping off said tea. He shifts his chair to her face her ankle-on-knee, adding, "If I may be so bold as to ask, what's the time?"

"Time for you to buy a watch, Mr. Kirkland!"

He appropriately groans.

She sets down the mug, stepping tentatively towards his desk, then back again. She closes the door behind her but rests herself against it, propped up with a peculiar little smile. Arthur, naturally, is baffled.

"Did you have something to tell me?"

"No," she says shortly. "I just wanted an excuse to see inside your office, and Caleb told me some kind of drink would be a good way in – was it rude of me?"

"Cheeky, perhaps," he replies, lifting the mug in question. "But not rude."

She inflates her cheeks, breath held while he takes an initial mouthful. He watches her curiously over the cup's lip, because he hadn't thought there's anything too interesting about his study – a desk rendered messy by far too much documentation, a shelf containing books he wouldn't trust around the boys, and an office-chair successfully nicked from his previous solicitor's firm.

"It's good." He lowers the cup, flashing a weak smile. "Thanks for, erm, bothering to make it. You needn't look so nervous because I'm not some kind of... some kind of tea _connoisseur_."

(He is, of course, and she'll require guidance later, but for now the taste is acceptable enough.)

"I'm glad! I'd half-expected you to accuse me of poisoning you because I prefer coffee, really, but Caleb said-"

"You're getting along quite well with Caleb, aren't you?" Arthur interrupts, partly because he has no time for hearing the odes to coffee usually spewed by continentals. "And Benjamin's taken a shine to your spontaneous linguistic lessons."

"Oh, yes. They're nice boys, Arthur. I was worried, at first, that they wouldn't like me – but they seem to enjoy doing things with me."

His smile turns bitter. "Mm. They like _you_, yes."

She visibly tenses, and he's not sure if it's from his expression or any alteration to his tone. When she delivers a furious shake of her head, he realises it scarcely matters.

"I don't mean they don't like _you_! They talk about you all the time – you're their father, after all, but if I want them to be comfortable around me I have to prove my worth. This is something I've said, yes? And have I not been doing so? I have brothers, you see, and a wide family past that; I enjoy this sort of thing." She waves a hand. "The... The... _huishoudelijk_. I can't remember."

"My live-in translator's taking a day off, I'm afraid," Arthur says with a grin, attempting – and failing – to keep hidden just how pleased he suddenly feels. If the boys have mentioned him, _especially_ in a positive light, then perhaps he has nothing to fear.

As he happily indulges in self-satisfaction, Élise makes her way towards his bookshelf. Not much of it is relevant to his work; they're recreational, big thick volumes dedicated to naval campaigns and air forces. He watches her run the tip of her finger along the spines of each book, breath catching in his throat until she speaks, almost awed.

"You weren't joking about the military part."

"No." He allows himself to swallow. "It's a bit – weird, I suppose, and the boys think it's boring. So I don't really talk about it. My neighbour – Ms. Ngô, that is – she might tell you I'm a raging imperialist for it, but it's just an interest."

"Is she Marxist?"

"No, Vietnamese." Then he pauses. "Wait. Yes, that's – that's it."

Élise laughs, plucking one particular book from his shelf so delicately one might almost think it weighed nothing at all. Arthur knows it _definitely _weighs something substantial, having dropped it on his toes enough to be informed.

"I don't think it's weird," she says softly. "I think it's interesting, too; how grand were the Kings and Queens of Britain!"

"Not very," he says with a grimace, pointing to the tome in her grip. "That one's about Henry VIII – a nasty bugger if there ever was one, and to die of gout is to admit idiocy."

"You speak as if you know them."

"I know _enough_. I assume you like Victoria – that sort of thing."

"I see how it is!" Élise turns to him with narrowed eyes, slipping the Tudor's book back into its previous position. "Do you expect me to have feather-headed notions of courtships and romanticism?"

"Possibly," Arthur replies, eyes gleaming with amusement. "She and Albert had a rather passionate marriage, after all, one orchestrated in part by _your _people."

"_My_ people," Élise gleefully parrots. "You speak as though you're disgusted."

"On the contrary. Belgium is actually one of the few non-British nations I can tolerate." He swaps his legs over, continuing only when comfortable, "That said, your English is superb."

"Aside from the words I forget, you mean."

She sounds far more curt than she had done before, gesturing to his desk – _may I? _– before perching her posterior atop it. He doesn't have time to answer her, not that he's too bothered, obligingly turning his chair again to face her. To have Élise looming over him is not, after all, without its menace.

"You're going to make a mess of my workspace, madam."

"Hush, hush – I won't knock over your tea. Or crumple your papers."

"I wouldn't really be fussed."

"That's because you're _kind_." She rests her hands on her knees, pressing them together as she teasingly declares, "The kindest man I've ever met!"

"Oh, by nature," he says with a snort, well aware of his bastard's reputation. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Élise."

"It got me into your house, didn't it?"

"_Touché_." Arthur presses back into his seat, watching her with an angled stare. "I must admit, nevertheless, it helps if the visitor is pretty and promises to enable my household laziness."

"Oh!" She presses her hands to her mouth, something thespian. "You think I'm pretty, do you? _Heavens_."

"I won't have been the only man to ever tell you that."

"Maybe, maybe not. You must _try_ not to fall in love with me, Arthur."

Christ, she's infuriating. But the smile she's wearing is too soft to be malicious, and he is not blind to the gentle flush that's crept across her cheeks; he'd tease her more just to fluster her, but that would damage the notion they're aiming to be _friends. _

"I will do my very best," he says in the end, "or you might find yourself the mother to another set of terrorising twins."

"They're _twins_?"

"Not really. They like to pretend they are; don't believe them."

"Consider me informed," Élise says, quietly crossing her legs at the ankles. "I hope I wasn't interrupting anything, but I wanted to talk to you."

"Why?"

"There's this... awkwardness. Isn't there? I wish to get rid of it as quickly as possible by smothering you with my gravitas."

"An absolutely crucial measure."

He speaks with whimsy because he knows she's lying. It's clear what she _really_ wants to find out; everyone always does. Sooner or later, they question it, the motivation his wife had for making her escape.

It's _unusual_, for a woman to flee from her children and disappear without a trace, just as it's unusual for a man to raise his young alone, such developing a bombardment of queries unto itself. Is he too dull, they wonder, or is he some kind of abusive drunk? Is he sexist, does he snore, is she buried somewhere in his garden? Is he a liar, an addict, a creature on the run? Is he simply just dreadful in bed?

Arthur always skirts around the issue, but Élise at least has the decency to decide against asking.

Instead she says, "_So_."

"Yes. So."

"Benjamin's bath."

"Right." He frowns. "What about it?"

"I could help him with it if you like," she says – and Arthur must do something to appear suspicious because she hastens to add, "I'm not anything to worry about! If anything, he's the one who likes removing his clothes around _me, _which I hope isn't some kind of family trait."

"Oh, _har-har_," he says, though his smile establishes itself once more all the same. "If you're referring to his shirt, he takes it off whenever he can regardless. It's a phase-"

"_Domesticity._"

"I'm sorry?"

"That's the word," she says, and she pushes herself off from his table before he can interject. "The one I tried to recall: I enjoy this sort of thing – I enjoy the _domestic_." She spares a glimpse towards the door as though possessed, attention drawn by something beyond the office's vicinity, but she does look back to him long enough to ask, "Are you domestic, Arthur?"

He'd thought it was obvious.

* * *

The momentous matter of Benjamin's bath only comes to fruition on Monday evening, something Arthur's made aware of when his welcome home is a very wet hug.

He's now taken to wearing _no _clothes – but it's understandable, the towel around his waist enough to provide a sense of modesty. When he pulls away, Arthur briefly fumes, glancing down at himself to see his white shirt rendered peach as it clings, dampened, to his stomach.

"_Bollocks,_" Arthur mutters, which admittedly isn't the best thing to say if he wishes to set a stellar example.

Benjamin doesn't hear him, because Benjamin is too busy rushing off towards the staircase.

Unwilling to call him back, Arthur merely watches him go, thoughts an internal lament. He usually _tries, _at least, to get home before the boys; their school is but a brief walk away while he has to break a few speed limits in order to so much as exit the city on time.

The fact Élise had been there to welcome them is not particularly reassuring.

A quick review of the hallway tells him nothing substantial has gone missing – he still sees coats, furniture and floorboards. Élise hasn't given him any reason not to trust her within his home, but then, she hasn't been given a chance to prove herself either.

"Is that you, Arthur?" calls a voice, sing-song, while he's locking the front door behind him.

"Yes," he calls, then thinks to add, "Who else would it be?"

"I don't know who you've given a key to," the voice huffs, just as Élise's head appears around the living-room doorway. "But I'm glad you're back – did Benjamin tell you he took his bath all by himself?"

Arthur displays an expression of appropriate horror. "Following the Great Kirklandian Flood of last year, he's not _supposed _to take his bath all by himself."

"Oh," Élise says, though she doesn't appear too guilty. "He said you wouldn't mind."

"I suppose I don't," he says, resigned. He's quiet as he shrugs off his jacket, only speaking again once he's hung it up. "Allow me to express my gratitude that there isn't a crater where the house should be – I assume you somehow managed to entertain yourself all day."

"Indeed I did." A smile tugs the corners of Élise's mouth, felid, while she paws at her hair in an equally catlike manner. "Perhaps you should come in."

He opens his mouth to respond but he's too sluggish in doing so; she dips back into the living room and leaves him goggling after her. Hence comes his second sigh of the day, while obediently trudging to the mess she's undoubtedly made of the lounge.

Except there isn't one.

"Good day at the office?" quips Lan, as she appears to be making herself very much at home on Arthur's favourite armchair. Her legs are neatly folded beneath her, her ao dai's fabric consisting of the same dark shade as her hair, and her hands are clutching a mug he recognises as one of his own.

"Meeting the neighbours, I see," says Arthur, and Élise simply giggles before dragging him to the sofa.

He's frankly too exhausted to protest, tumbling back against the seat while Élise perches beside him. She lifts a mug of her own from the coffee table and he, trained creature that he is, recognises the scent of tea.

It's Lan who speaks next, her gaze focused on Arthur's torso.

"You've had a bit of an accident."

Panicked, he glances down at himself, only to stiffen when he realises what she's citing. "Over my _shirt_?"

"A joke," Lan says, taking a sip of whatever beverage it is she possesses. "I don't know the ins and outs of male urination. Or just the outs."

"It was Benjamin_,_" he says, and ventures to clarify no further. "How long have you been here for?"

"Not long. I saw your boys arrive home before you, so I decided it was high time to acquaint myself with your nanny."

"_Housekeeper_," corrects Élise.

"_Lodger_," corrects Arthur.

"As you wish." Lan shrugs. "Putting a pretty name on your blatant serfdom doesn't change its nature – bamboo is still bamboo."

"You were right!" Élise cries, turning abruptly to Arthur. She pats his knee with her hand almost excitedly, tacking on, "She _did _tell me you're a raging imperialist!"

Arthur only grins.

"Lovely to see I can always count on you for consistency, Lan. I thought you didn't like _Western_ tea?"

"I don't," is all she says, just before downing another mouthful.

"Is it bad?" Élise says, near a gasp – she looks to Arthur once more and repeats, "Is it _bad_?"

"How should I know?" he says, brow aloft. "I'm not the one drinking it. I suppose it's nice to see you're getting along with her, though – it gives you someone to spend time with when we're not around. Lan works from home, you see."

"I know!" Élise leans forward, lowering her tone to something conspiratorial while continuing, "She is a leading writer for Britain's communist movement in relevant publications."

Lan supplies a knowing nod. "Do you see, Arthur? I'm training her for you."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"Chat with us!" Élise bids, unprompted. "Don't you want Arthur to stay and chat with us?"

"Anything involving Arthur generally bores me," Lan drones, "but I'll put up with it on this particular occasion."

"You're too kind," he says, then winces. Not because of Lan's sharp tongue, but because of Élise's sharp _nails_; she pushes off from his knee for launching herself to her feet.

"I'll make tea for you, too," she says, as if explanatory. "You like milk, and you say you only take two sugars but you secretly sneak yourself three – Lan _has _been training me."

To Arthur's ears, the very prospect sounds like a threat, but he keeps quiet until Élise has removed her delicate ears from the room. He inclines himself forward, then, speaking in a fashion not much removed from hissing.

"What are you _doing _here?"

"Hm?" Lan trills like she's honestly taken aback. "I'm trying to _help _you, Arthur, that's all."

"I don't _need_ your help-"

"Yes you do." She sets down her mug, pressing her feet to the floor in turn. "Tell me, how did you feel at work today, knowing someone else was going to be wandering about your house, and knowing a relative stranger might take responsibility of your sons for an hour or so? You felt nervous, didn't you? Scared, perhaps – or angry?"

"...All three, but I don't see how any of _that_ concerns you."

"I vetted her for you," Lan says, prim. "I can confirm your offspring are in perfectly good hands. Ngô's seal of approval."

Arthur opens his mouth to protest. Lan puts up a palm.

"If you dare speak a word, Arthur, I will revoke the approval I've generously granted _you _and tell Élise to run for the hills. Are you going to trust me on this one or not?"

There's a shock if there ever was one. He wasn't aware Lan had given him any such commendation, even internally. He opts for folding his arms over his chest while resolving, in earnest, to sit in silence until Élise's return - it's not worth the argument he'd achieve otherwise. (_Milk, _the deargirl will laugh, _and three sugars. Is that enough?)_

Truth be told, he has to admit he's lost the anxiety he had before. He's felt absolutely fine since taking off his shoes; to hear Lan's encouragement is simply affirmation, because he's certain one of the boys would've been quick to tell him, had anything truly horrible happened in his absence.

It's taken all of three days, and he doesn't quite know it yet, but they've made some kind of hierarchy.

Within another week, he'll begin forgetting what life was like without Élise around to begin with.

* * *

**-tbc-**

* * *

**AN: **Some notes again: Basil Fawlty is a character from British sitcom _Fawlty Towers, _one famous scene being the depiction of said character insulting a bunch of Germans with as many unintentional WWII references as possible. An _ao dai _is a national dress within Vietnam. Translations for the Dutch within the text are correct, as far as I know, though I could well be wrong and I apologise if I was! The title comes from a poem of the same name by Belgian author Paul van Ostaijen.

Thanks again to all who reviewed; it motivates me to write haha. Until next time!


	4. by instinct took the way

**Warning: **Sensual shenanigans ahoy! There are parts of this chapter later on that might seem a wee bit racier than previous ones; the rating doesn't bump up, of course, but this is just a caution of sorts. I apologise that this chapter hasn't been beta-read; please ignore any resultant typos, haha.

* * *

**IV: by instinct took the way**

* * *

"You've put on weight," is Lan's greeting, when Arthur's fumbling for his key after returning home (again late) one Wednesday afternoon.

It's unwarranted, but he'd hardly expected to receive spontaneous compliments. True kindness from Lan would no doubt herald the apocalypse. He turns his head to see her peering, in her usual way, across the fence, fingertips soundlessly drumming against the pinewood.

In lieu of anything else to offer he curtly responds, "Why, thank you."

"You've been eating well."

"I've been _fed _well. There's a substantial difference."

She expels a contemplative _hm_. Once he's managed to unlock the door, he slants his head to once again regard her, and it's just in time to see her flash a smirk. It's not a particularly reassuring sight; he resorts to watching, hand accordingly frozen on the handle where it rests.

"Your cheeks," she says, next, "are round. And red."

"Does it make me look _jolly_?"

"Don't be ridiculous. But you look... healthier."

His smile is bitter, be it from her manner or implication. "I wasn't on death's door, Lan."

"I wouldn't be so sure," she mutters, "but your protruding stomach isn't actually wanted I wanted to talk with you about."

"It isn't? Oh, how disappointing."

"Silence your caustic remarks, brute." Lan tucks her hair back over her shoulders; it's not often she wears it down but it shines, gleaming in spring's softly-warm daylight. "I wanted to discuss the holidays, in fact, because don't your boys have time off coming up?"

"Easter," Arthur states, much to his irritation. Fourteen days straight of Caleb and Benjamin without any educational facility for carting them off to; he doesn't know how he'll cope.

Lan asserts herself as if she knows, continuing, "I have a cousin. Or so you could say, because he's not exactly a nephew; he lives out in Hong Kong. You know – China."

"I bloody well know where _Hong Kong _is-"

"Of course you do; you're a raging imperialist. My main motivation for mentioning him is that I thought it might be nice for his vacation to take place in Britain – he has time to spare." She tightens her grip on the fence where her hands rest, adding, "Would you mind?"

Arthur stares, waiting to see if there's anything else she intends to evoke. When she only stares back, silent and blank, he tugs at the dip of his collar.

"Why would you be asking _me_? Invite him if you want to."

"He's learning English," Lan says, the calm intensity of her gaze carrying with it the expectation Arthur will suddenly understand. She's hesitant to continue, nevertheless; he memories the sight of it, the vague wave of her hand before she concludes, "I wanted to know if you'd mind him, you know, playing with Benjamin and Caleb. Spending time at yours, that sort of thing – he's older, but not by much."

The foundations of a grin plead with Arthur's sensibilities. "Are you asking me a _favour, _Lan?"

"He's just a little boy, Arthur; I'm not demanding you donate him a kidney. So will you?"

With at last a smile, Arthur turns the handle, directing a cordial nod of acceptance to where Lan's continued watch reaches him. _Not a problem, _he motions to say. _Any relative of yours must be ever so sociable._

As befits his luck, of course, he doesn't gain time for clarifying his reaction – Lan simply states, "Thank you!" – and like that, sun-shielded, she's gone.

He hears Lan open her front door just as he's closing his, palms pressing flat to his cheeks. Perhaps he _is _getting fat. A City-based lawman with two-point-one children and associated nanny; Lan's not-cousin might really be visiting to film a scathing documentary about him.

Said children are happy to make themselves known, because Arthur doesn't have time to dwell on what he's agreed to before there's a hand around his wrist; brief inspection informs him it's Caleb, and raw experience tells him he's wanted. He doesn't have time enough, either, to so much as kick off his shoes, the boy's intentions only expressed through a rather indefinite sort of grunt.

Caleb tugs him (and proudly, too), away from the door and through to the lounge – from there, he's led out to the patio.

"We're all _outside_," Caleb declares, while his father falls into line behind him. Arthur is far too tired to bother questioning further.

That said, it's not because he's adverse to being '_outside' – _shameful as it is to confess, Arthur used to rather enjoy gardening, especially during months such as these. When they'd first moved in, he'd exercised his green thumbs with enough ferocity to infuriate the neighbourhood concerning how _much _soil he'd insisted upon noisily shifting about, and at all hours, too. Lately, he hasn't had the time for it, but his work from months gone by was not entirely wasted.

With the season has come rejuvenation, and the relatively small patch of land assigned to modern townhouses at least looks prettier than it otherwise would. The lawn is a green sent from chloros, each hair of it just long enough to coil; the lily-beds stand to blossomed attention with a rapt Benjamin before them, cross-legged, fumbling with buttery petals between his pink fingertips.

Almost instantly, Caleb drops Arthur's arm, instead engaging in an acrobatic stumble to join his brother. It's of no real concern because _Élise_, draped weightlessly over the greenery, is a far more enticing sight.

She's been acquiring clothes since she first moved in. Today, she's dressed as pink as Arthur's flowers, bare aside from her dress – the hem leads a messy trail along her thighs while her legs unfold askew, toes immersed in the barest hint of soil. Her arms lie sloped above her, wrists crossed beneath the arrangement of her silken hair while she, irregular enthralment that she is, casts only the shadows of her eyelashes across her cheeks and then, no shadows more.

To say she's something nice to come home to would be an understatement.

"Sleeping on the job, are we?" he says, when it becomes apparent Élise hasn't quite noticed he's there. He neatly tucks his hands away behind his back, his shadow an eclipse to her.

Élise's eyes quiver open, unaccustomed to the light while the green of them rings dull in contending with the lawn. She smiles, though it takes her a moment to adopt it, and arches herself as she sits.

"Not sleeping, Mr. Kirkland! No, no; _sunbathing. _How was work? I thought you'd never come home!"

"Dreadful. Though I sneakily tuned the office radio to the cricket – but is today really sunbathing weather?"

Her smile moves in coy directions. "For _England,_ it is."

"How rude," Arthur tuts, with a tap of mock-scolding to the top of Élise's head. "I've been stressed enough by the performance of those blasted Aussies."

"I _like _the Aussies," comes a third voice, to which Arthur responds through the art of scowling.

"I know you do, Ben, but I'm not talking to you, am I? I assume you've both been behaving for Élise."

"They've been very good," she says. Her legs slink up against her, knees tucked beneath her chin. "They're always very good; I'm not sure why you still insist on asking."

Arthur peers down to her, and he's unable to reply because he's not too sure himself. By now, it's habit – forged in the course of two months, or so. February's introduction became April's routine.

"Are you going to sit with us?" she asks, to counter his silence. Her arm moves with elegance, hand motioning as if to smooth the ground beside her.

"_Right_," he says, and his attention immediately focuses on removing his jacket. It was once a tad too big for him – a tight suit is no less than a sin _– _but she's made sure that his entire wardrobe seems snugger, not that it's of any use to him in springtime.

Firstly, he takes great care in ceremoniously laying down the aforementioned garment. Secondly, he all but collapses atop it.

"_Goodness_," she says with a laugh, half-heartedly enclosed behind her fingertips. "Are we tired, Arthur?"

"I should hope not," he retorts. "I was saying to Ms. Ngô – the Easter holidays are mere days away. I'm going to need far more energy than I have now."

Stifling a yawn, he leans back on his elbows, staring absent-mindedly at his own legs while he stretches them out before him. It's Élise's turn to study _him_ from some elevated height, visibly straightening her spine.

"Yes, so they've often said," she replies, and softly, too. "You don't sound too pleased, but I'm looking forward to it – I admit I've grown tired of baking all day to pass the time."

"I'm sorry," he weakly offers. "You – you don't have to stay indoors all day if you're bored, you know."

"I know." She beams at him. "But I'd rather do my sightseeing with friends than alone; alas for I."

"Then we'll see those sights." He pauses. "With or without Lan's not-nephew."

"And what is a not-nephew?"

"A potential visitor to anticipate," he says, hand-waving the question in a literal sense. "Another holiday event for looking forward to, I suppose, though I'm scarcely thrilled."

"It will be _fun_, sir. We can take them on days out while you show me London in the process, and people will mistake me as their mother before mistaking _you _as their grandfather."

He jerks his head before he's fully processed her statement, wild gaze attempting to determine how serious she's being – when he sees her again battling laughter, his eyes simply narrow.

"_Hilarious. _Contrary to popular belief, I haven't yet found myself a decent combination of pipe and slippers."

"But a pipe would suit you so _well_!"

He tries, then, to ask her what she means by that. It's simply from curiosity, but she silences him prematurely by pushing her fingers through his hair.

It's a shock, at first, her touch the trigger to a dash of electric that trickles through his core. She seems to notice his surprise because she does it again, smiling, dragging her nails lightly in turn across his scalp. Strand by strand, his locks tousle to greet her, though she's merciful in disrupting them again.

And it's _nice. _An explanation might be nicer, but for now he doesn't pursue it – his head swerves towards her touch, regardless of how stoic he attempts to keep his expression. The ricochet of a twitch springs across her mouth, its promise of laughter unrealised, and she takes back her hand to sift it down again through his fringe. It tickles, sort of.

Is this flirting? He can't be sure. He wouldn't solicit anything more from her (_how dreadfully Victorian) _but receiving attention from such a pretty thing is why he giddily convinces himself that yes, _yes_, this might be flirting, even though he's noticed Élise hardly shies from affection.

(Ever so European.)

"Such soft hair," she states, with one particularly reverent stroke. "_Healthy_."

"So I've been told." He shuts one eye, a low grumble caught in his throat. "That's another thing Lan said. She said – said I'm looking healthier, thanks to your guardianship." A grimace. "_Fatter_, too, but that's beside the point."

Élise has nothing to contribute; her hand stills, resting against his crown, and she gives his hair one final violent ruffle before she pulls away. Admittedly disappointed by the removal of contact, all he can manage is propping himself up.

Throughout the discussion of adults, Caleb and Benjamin have been suspiciously quiet; it's always fishy when they're not making noise, but in the garden it counts even more so. Arthur keeps mute to watch them, fancying himself as an investigator, and all he discovers is the worm they've taken to bothering with a twig.

Arthur does sometimes wonder how they carry his genes. When he was a boy, pretentious and pertinent, he'd turned his nose up at the mere concept of dirtying his hands or making himself acquainted with insects.

"I think," he begins, with his focus centring on Élise, "that I'd quite enjoy cracking open my emergency whiskey while the boys are well and truly distracted. God knows I need a drink – care to join me?"

Élise doesn't respond for a brief instant, far more engrossed in the progression of the Kirkland spawn with that worm. When she finally registers his invitation, she presses her fingertips together to regard him.

"But I do _so _want to find out the end to this _saga_."

"There's wine, either."

"You're on," she swiftly chirps, and then, she positively cackles.

* * *

(_You're home, you're home – I was beginning to think you'd forgotten we were here. What on Earth do you spend so much time on, Arthur?_)

Oh, he's fond of her.

It isn't really much of a secret – she's noticed, no doubt. His attempts at preventing himself from wanting her were only half-arsed at best; he'd silently accepted he'd be charmed by everything she offered him, since the day she's asked him to at least _try _not to.

She might've been joking. Just as likely, she might've been not.

(_I'll make your sweet tooth fall out yet. Would you prefer me to bring you the sugar bowl alone_?)

Their dynamic suits him. He seeks no alteration – where else is she going to rush to? There aren't any other men in her life because London is not her lady; finding them would be a challenge. She keeps to the boundaries of his house, saving the wages she doesn't spend, and Arthur may adore her but his sons are just as keen.

(_Cities like this only make me get lost, sir. It's ho-hum without you around._)

She's a secret; she's something he selfishly keeps for himself.

* * *

Regardless, he couldn't love a woman who doesn't love whiskey.

Arthur sees the sly grimace she sports as he decants his first tumbler, though she brightens considerably when he pours her a glass as his next act. Not of whiskey, of course, but of rosé – at least she knows what she likes.

"Cheers," he says, as he guardedly holds out his drink.

"_Proost,_" she smugly replies, and clinks her glass to his.

He takes his seat at the table opposite Élise, opting to down his first sip before responding to her. There's a reason why he'd rather have booze inside him before talking, and it's not just because he's a notorious lightweight. She's declined the invitation to drink with him before –_ no, I couldn't possibly. You bought it, you should enjoy it_ – but one glass, as a hot afternoon slips into warm evening, feels like progress.

Regardless, he has work tomorrow. Delivering consultancy with a hangover is about as much fun as cleaning up after Benjamin following a liquorice overdose.

"You've been teaching my sons Dutch," is all he can say, as she watches him expectantly.

It sounds more accusatory than he'd intended for it to be but she merely giggles, brow raising in good humour. The sound is caught by her glass, while she tips back the first mouthful of wine and savours it.

"Just a little bit," she says. "It makes me feel less – homesick, to hear such sweet little cherubs cooing the call of the low countries."

Her elusive travels. Arthur slowly shakes his head, takes another drink.

"Why don't you just go back?"

"To Belgium?"

"Well. Yes."

"It's not that I haven't considered returning." She sets down her glass, fingertip lazily dragging along the rim of it. "But I left for a reason – I couldn't possibly go back now."

Open as her statement might be, he feels no need to question further. She's always avoided the issue (I just need somewhere to _stay_), and there's no real reason why she'd tell him now, reveal to him what she's running from, or running to. Still, she's watching him again, waiting for him to attempt it.

Half-heartedly, he delivers the obligatory, "Why not?"

His disinterest rings clear in his delivery. Élise displays something of a creeping half-smile, bare nails tapping out rhythmic irritation against the marble table.

"You don't sound too interested."

"I know you're not going to tell me, that's all."

"That's true, but why would you allow someone you know so little about to skulk around your home?"

"You're good with my boys." Another sip, and then, "You're also good with _me_."

Élise looks down. She presses her hand to her cheek like he's slapped her, leaning back in her chair.

"I'll tell you, Arthur. Someday soon." When he says nothing, channelling suspicion, she goes on, "I can't, yet, and it's not even a very interesting story – I will bore you to tears with it later and you'll regret ever wanting to know."

"I'm sure that's not true," chirps he, at least now with some idea of how to proceed. "You're – you're a friend, Élise. We get along, don't we? And I'm grateful enough to have a buxom Belgian beauty willing to keep my children leashed in return for piss-weak wine."

"A buxom _what?_" she blusters, resting her chin against her palm. "You must be seeing things – there aren't any of those. Are you sure you need anything to drink at all, Arthur?"

"Probably not," he says with a grin. In spite of it, he downs the last of his tumbler.

"It's better wine than you think, you know."

"All rosé is piss-weak."

"I can tell you where I'm from."

_That, _that takes him by surprise. And he frowns, wondering if it's possible she could be even more of a lightweight than he, intoxicated from barely a quarter-glass.

"I know where you're from," he says. Each syllable is a slow drag because he could, conceivably, have been utterly duped; it wouldn't be the first time. "Belgium. The place with all the royal sex scandals."

"Yes, yes – how culturally sensitive you are, Arthur – but I mean which _part._" Her grin is slow-burning, each second ticking by granting it expansion. "How masterful is your European geography?"

"_Bollocks_," he says, "be it as an adjective or noun. I don't know – Antwerp? Brussels?"

Élise's grin gives way to a laugh, hand reaching across to pat the back of his own. She takes a near-triumphant mouthful of wine, cheeks swollen to accommodate savouring it, and he's thoroughly bewildered when she looks to him again.

"Arthur!" she cries. "Those are the only two places you _know_!"

"Yes," he plainly admits, then changes his mind. "Wait – Ypres. Ypres is one, isn't it?"

"A battleground of the Great War," she says, mechanical. "Do you know of it, perchance, from those big historical books you read?"

"Knowledge is knowledge, no matter what the source." He reaches for the whiskey, then, and stares at it, examining the labels as if considering the merit of drinking straight from the bottle. "Go on, though. Put me out of my misery."

"I shall give you a clue."

"_Joyous day_."

Ignoring his gall, she leans forward, just enough to whisper into his ear. "It holds a _festival_, sir."

"Of what nature, madam? Praising cats? I've heard about that one."

"No, no! That is _Kattenstoet,_ in Ypres itself. I attended it, once, when I was very young... aren't cats majestic?"

"Rules out Ypres, then."

"Yes, but it doesn't rule out you purchasing a kitten." She gropes for her drink, attempting to shield that appropriately feline smirk of hers with the glass. "I think Caleb especially would really like a cat."

"One thing at a time, please," he curtly states. "You wouldn't happen to want a pet, would you?"

"Never did I say anything of the sort!" She shakes her glass, impish. "You should be guessing the festival, sir."

"_All right,_" he declares, through faint exasperation. "I'm never going to get this – some kind of parade?"

"Perhaps a parade of privates," she says, and laughs at the blank look he gives her in return. "Pornography awards, silly! They were being held in dearest Brussels, a place you guessed, and it was the last curious thing I remember hearing about before I found myself in Britain."

"_Er_," he says, twisting his mouth while simultaneously scoffing. What else could he give?

While he tries out a variety of different expressions, attempting to locate one that might be even halfway appropriate, she reaches across the table and snatches the bottle of whiskey from his grip. He doesn't put up much of a fight, catching every movement she makes as still-frame photography in his mind's recollection. Her commemorated stop-motion theft.

"I knew that would fluster you," she says, so very self-satisfied. He's aware of the heat in his cheeks, coupled with a scowl that she hardly appears very intimidated by. "Poor Arthur, poor Arthur; does he miss his poorer liquor?"

"Thought you didn't like whiskey," he primly replies.

"_You_ seem to enjoy it. My tastes may well have altered since I started absorbing your overwhelming influence. Cultural osmosis!" Her fingers make musical motions with its screw-cap as she speaks, elbow veering dangerously close to knocking her wine across the counter. But she doesn't. "These things – these things are pesky to _open_-"

"Here."

He puts out a hand, silently requesting said whiskey's safe return; she observes him for a moment before airily complying.

She says something, he's not sure what. No doubt a comical quip or ribbing remark, though he doesn't pay it much heed, taking his discarded empty tumbler to refill it. The lid yields for him with far more ease than it did for her, though he suspects it's only because she'd been turning it the wrong way.

"Here," he repeats, raising the glass. He tips it towards her mouth in demonstration. "Open."

He's not expecting her to comply, which is why he hesitates when she does. Her lips, plump and pink, part for him, though it's not by much because she anticipates it, the burn of whiskey that puts so many drinkers off the stuff. Even so, her hands slowly reach for his wrist, fingertips pressing through the fabric of his shirt-cuffs while he presses the glass to her bottom lip, quivering plush that it is.

This, he assuredly thinks, is most definitely flirting.

Lithe fingers wrap around his wrist instead, while he pours just a taste of the whiskey to her mouth. He can't see it trickle down her tongue, not from this angle, but he's convinced she's accepted it by the way her throat trembles from the bite of its flavour. All the while, she doesn't blink, eyes wide and calm; she refuses to flinch, simply staring to meet his line of vision.

He stares back, and despite their state, he smiles at her. Had he been afforded the opportunity, he would've been smooth and sophisticated, taking back the glass with flourish. He would've ascended his smile to a lazy pull, content with examining her irises like artwork.

The opportunity doesn't come to him – shock and awe – because the sound of an exaggerated gasp puts him off his game.

So: there comes a gasp, and Arthur jumps, and Élise _chokes _when more whiskey than intended cascades past her teeth, and Arthur places the glass down half-emptied prior to offering her a useless shoulder-pat in concern, flurried nonsense toppling from his mouth as if it's enough to provide any sort of consideration.

She emits some kind of objection, voice hoarse from the effort; she swats his hand away and leaps out of her seat, a blur of pink and white and _shrieking_ that spares no time in escaping through the kitchen door, towards the staircase.

Undoubtedly, she wouldn't appreciate him following her, so following her doesn't so much as cross his mind. He wildly surveys the room, search falling on the culprit behind that blasted noise while he does his best not to see red, red, red.

Well, who else would it be? His own treacherous offspring stand parallel in the doorway from the garden, their faces streaked with apropos soil – it's Benjamin's mouth, however, that retains the 'o' of its inhale.

"_Why_?" Arthur croaks.

It's all he's capable of. There are plenty of other things he'd like to say, granted, but it's generally frowned upon for a parent to accuse their children of interrupting attempts at seduction.

Caleb almost sounds indignant. "Why are you trying to poison Élise?"

"What?" he snaps, then assigns a thumb to each temple. "No. It's not poison. It's _whiskey_!"

"Then how come," ventures Benjamin, "_we're_ not allowed to drink it?"

"You're _eight_. They don't even start that young in fucking _France_."

He really should know better, because he's met only by another magnified gasp. This time, it's a duet, and the conversation it inspires serves only to intensify Arthur's threat of a growing headache.

"You said a bad word!"

"The _f_-word."

"I'm telling Alice!"

"Me too – if you didn't _poison_ her already."

"Murder!"

"_Murderer_!"

"Will you just- Both of you shut _up_!"

Arthur's voice escapes him as almost a roar. It takes even he by surprise – though not as much as it does Ben and Caleb, their incessant chatter silenced within a second. Oh, he detests shouting at them, but he's not exactly too keen on being branded a murderer, either.

"Listen," he says, decidedly softly. "She wanted to try it. That's all. The more pressing issue here is that you're both absolutely filthy and I don't want you leaving mud all over the furniture, so why don't you both run along and get dressed in time for bed, hm?"

Suddenly more willing to negotiate, Benjamin folds his arms. "It's not bedtime for another hour, dad."

"Fu—_Funereal_." He pauses to ponder. "Why not shove off and take an hour-long bath, then?"

Benjamin arches a brow. "With all the boats?"

"With all the boats."

"No shampoo?"

"_Some_ shampoo. You'll need a bit."

"And with as many bubbles as we want?"

"I suppose so," he says, despite the immediate chasm of dread his abdomen takes to housing. "Just – just don't flood the place-"

Maybe he should just be grateful that he has two little boys who actually enjoy the concept of bathing. Maybe he should be _less_ grateful for the sodden carpets they leave in their wake. Either way, it's too late to convince them otherwise and he's left, abandoned, to mop the spilt whiskey away with laughably ineffective paper towels.

* * *

Élise is a forgiving soul: she washes away his discomfort by dismissing her own.

"It's my fault," she insists upon returning, her slinky descent down the stairs almost timid. She's not oblivious to the fact it's a lie, but she still goes on, "I already knew whiskey is the devil, Arthur. I should not have trusted it."

He's grateful. Pathetically so, because he's never been too good with apologies and he's even worse at removing an awkward atmosphere. He pours her another glass of wine while she lingers in the kitchen doorway once more, this serving far larger than the last; it's not to get her drunk (mostly), but to act as something of a peace-offering.

It pleases her, at least, by the way she takes it and nuzzles her lips to the brim. She has emerged from the bathroom a mess, all rumpled clothing and frizzy hair, allowing the Kirkland boys to rectify their own disarray within it – but she's a nice mess. A lovely mess. A bedraggled Belgian beauty soon to be curled up upon his armchair.

Moving to the living room had seemed the most natural thing, what with daylight fading, clandestine, to sloping shades of dusk beyond the window. He's closed the curtains, lighting only the little electric lamp over the television; she's curled around her wine glass like it's far too heavy for her to handle. It's as close to cosy as his home ever gets.

When he finally sits upon the adjacent couch, he lets out a shuddering groan before he's fully mindful of his actions. It might be from stress, or from exhaustion, but whatever it is, she finds it ultimately entertaining.

"Poor _Arthur_," she breathes, as she had done before. She presses her neat, white teeth into her thumb while she calls in a laughing coo, "You'll worry yourself to death."

"One can but hope." He inclines forward, one arm resting over his knee while he tips back more liquor with the other. "God, I'd been beginning to forget what evenings of leisure feel like."

"That's because you work too much."

"It's mostly not even _my _work." He frowns. "Perhaps it'll ease once we've hired more staff for the practice – I'm merely trying to keep things ticking over."

"Such dedication," she flatly answers, doing nothing to hide her disinterest. "Your office sees far too much of you."

"In the city?"

"No, upstairs." She points to the ceiling above, then indulges herself in a long, gurgling drink. "I don't necessarily mind entertaining myself, once the boys have gone to bed, but I get... lonely, sometimes."

"I'm sorry," he robotically utters. He isn't sure what else to say.

"Don't be." She smiles, making absolutely no attempt at hiding the way she examines him, focus roaming across his somewhat more self-conscious figure. "Please understand, I _do _like spending time with the boys. But they're hardly as conversationally stimulating as you, at times, or maybe it's because you're the only adult living here... but I've already told you that you're entertaining."

"Still keeping that up, are you?" He lowers his cup, having taken a rather sizeable gulp from it. "You don't need to flatter me all the time. I'm not going to throw you out if you're not constantly massaging my rather undeserving ego."

"I mean it, though," she asserts. "I like you, Arthur. You're fun."

"That's not often a term used when describing me."

"Do you like me too, Arthur?"

"Of course." He needn't mull over his answer, sinking backwards into the sofa. "It's impossible to dislike you, miss. It's very frustrating."

To that, he thinks he sees a gleam in her gaze, though he can't be sure. While he tries to decipher her (a losing game), she quietly polishes off the last of her drink, swigging gracefully over and over. He watches, attempting to match her swallow for swallow; they've fallen into silence but it isn't uncomfortable. He can't tear his eyes away from her, something he's grateful to his whiskey for because he can always blame it on intoxication should she ask about it, renowned for intolerance.

One drink becomes two, and when two drinks become three he feels the need to comment.

"You're right," he says, as he lifts his glass to the light. "This _is _disgusting."

Élise appears startled, at first. Their game of gazing is wholly spoilt by the sound of his voice, but she soon relaxes to laugh again, the sound akin to a hiccough.

"Would you like me to feed you wine, Arthur?"

He sets the tumbler down. "Ha! You just want to shove it down my gullet as revenge."

"I'd never – I'd never do such a thing."

"I evidently believe you."

"Poor Arthur," she murmurs. He hopes it's not something she's adopting as a mantra; he'd not thought of himself as especially pitiable before. "Poor Arthur, poor Arthur; all alone with a big canister of alcohol."

"It's a small one," he says. "That's why I bought it. And anyway, dear Élise, I thought _you_ were supposed to be the tragically lonely one here."

"Dear Élise," she parrots, because she knows exactly what she wishes to take from his statement. "Dear, dear Élise. Am I your dearest?"

"You're certainly not my nemesis."

"I want to be your _dearest_."

She wins his full attention. There hasn't been any sort of commotion from upstairs for quite some time; with any luck, the boys have gone to bed, interruptions removed. It at least assures him that he can risk it, even if she's just testing him. Even if she doesn't mean it.

"Then my dearest you shall be."

Élise is rendered static, and her visible breathing serves as the only indication she hasn't quite turned to stone. She's gorgeous. So, so gorgeous; would she like a refill for whatever she's drinking, and would she mind him simply holding her?

She doesn't seem to notice his sudden longing, her voice a quiet mewl. "Lonely Arthur."

"I'm not lonely." He reconsiders. "But you could sit over here, if you're that concerned."

If the speed with which she stands up is anything to go on, Élise likes that idea. She leaves her wine-glass on the floor beside her armchair and places her hands on his shoulders, unshrinking. He can't think of any witty retort, something he blames on the whiskey, and watches with a sudden sense of excitement as she looms over him, hips careening a slow sway from one side to the other.

He, so unaccustomed to these sort of advances, can only state, feeble, "Remind me to never let you drink again."

She grins. "Then I'd never want to sit in your lap again."

"In that case, I'll let you drink whatever you like."

"May I sit in your lap?"

He swallows, unsure. But soon he says, as he always would: "You may."

She doesn't weigh very much at all. Once she's clambered over him, she's a light, soft warmth, pressing the curve of her arse dangerously close to the part of him that would appreciate it the most. He heaves a contented sigh against her shoulder while her arms reach for his own, such slender things encircling his back.

"You're more comfortable than the chair," she murmurs – to which he snorts.

He nuzzles across her throat until she lifts her head enough for him to rest there, pillowed by the slope of her long, white neck. He can't name her scent but he likes it, inhaling as much as he can until she giggles, tickled by his choppy hair. His hands gravitate to her hips, holding her in place against him while he feels bold enough to bestow a kiss to her skin, gentle and lingering. It might be what he's drunk or it might be her body, but he doesn't want to think any more.

She angles her head so far away from him that it would be impossible not to realise what she's after. He kisses her neck again, and then again, slow, open-mouthed things that proceed along to the dip of her jaw while she positively whimpers, the vibrations of her noises numbing his lips in the most _magnificent _way.

He doesn't feel her hands when they spring away from his shoulders, but he certainly feels them when she fists her fingers through his hair. He moves his own hands in response, palms rubbing along her sides, from her pelvis to the swell of her breasts and back again.

Grinning, he darts his head and nibbles her earlobe, only for a moment. She straightens up and lightly pants, firmly enough to sound aggressive – it doesn't put him off caressing her, still.

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologising?" he asks, surprised. "I'm hardly insulted that you want me to kiss you, my sweet."

"We've been _drinking_-"

"You're drunk from two glasses and a bit? I thought I was bad."

She smiles, though skittish. "I just don't want you to think ill of me."

"I'm not saying no, am I? We're both as bad as each other."

"Yes, but – but you're _silly_."

"Charming."

"Mm." She bunches his shirt between her fingers, nestling her cheek against his. "You are. You're silly and charming."

He removes his hands from her, arms rounding her waist instead, squeezing her gently. "My secret's out, I suppose. I've wanted to give you a cuddle for bloody _eons_."

"I've known you two months!"

"Felt like an eon to _me_."

She doesn't say anything. He doesn't either, but then again, it would be very difficult for him to talk with a mouth pressed up against his.

Élise is kissing him. Christ, she's actually kissing _him_. She cups his cheeks and flutters her lips, attempting to gain some kind of reciprocation, and it works, even if his own willingness takes him by surprise. His tongue flicks forth to dart between her teeth and he catches the flavour of rosé wine, pink blush – the same title he'd give to her complexion.

The sensation's so wonderfully sloppy, absolutely disgusting and unmistakably fantastic all at once. He can't rationalise it, doesn't want to, doesn't possibly know.

What on Earth has he done to make himself suddenly so irresistible? Oh, he's hardly going to break away from her to ask - the issue uncomfortably flickers through his mind, followed by the realisation they can't really be too loud. _You mustn't moan, poppet, because the boys need their full ten hours' sleep, see._

Even with imposed limitations, he's still disappointed when she – following one final muffled cry into his mouth – feels it right to break away from him.

"I'm sorry," she's saying, her voice suddenly a pitiful cry. Her hands push at his chest, fittingly weak, and her eyes look to everything but he. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kirkland - I'm sorry, I can't do this-"

He doesn't understand; did he do something wrong? He tries to soothe her with a near-playful kiss to her nose, but she's quick to pull away from him, the implication of her actions clearing the whiskey-haze over his system of logic.

"Dearest," he manages, though endearments are most likely not what she wishes to hear. "Élise, you don't have to do _anything_; it's me who should be apologising."

She finally meets his gaze, with the frightened ferocity of something pained. It's almost enough to make him wince, unable to drag his gaze away while his hands fly away from her, burnt by the feel of her, his body tense and unmoving.

"You're sweet," she chokes. "You're so sweet, Mr. Kirkland; I-I wouldn't _mind_ this, with you, it's not that I don't like you, Mr. Kirkland-"

"Arthur," he says. He delivers the most pathetic attempt at a smile in human history, adding, "Arthur, isn't it? Don't grow uncomfortable with me, _please;_ not now. I only offered one drink. It's my fault for giving you more."

"Ah, Arthur, no, no-"

"Here's to the liver failure I might well deserve, hm?"

"I'm so _sorry_!"

"It's all right, Élise. It's really all right."

Of course, it wouldn't be anything close to all right, if his nethers had their chance to protest. But he can't be angry, can't hold it against her. He didn't mean to push her too far and it breaks his heart to think he'd scared her, her hands resuming their grip on his shirt. He must've gone wrong. That's the only possibility.

"I'll tell you what we'll do," he says. "Why don't you go upstairs, and change into your pyjamas, or something more comfy than that dress – and I'll find us a dreadful film to heartily mock over coffee, _strong_ coffee, instead of wine; how's that?"

She nods, mustering a shadow of her usual smile, and Arthur simply leans back to let her move away as she wishes. After an awkward fumble to unfurl their tangled forms, she briskly leaves the room without looking back.

He's left to brood, and brood he does. His lips ache, only soothed to the minimum when he rubs the pad of his thumb along them. What on Earth had she been intending to achieve? He can't deny it felt nice, to have her so close and affectionate, but the sudden change in tact has completely thrown his volitions.

What does she want from him, or think of him? He's not sure what she's considering; he's not sure what she'd expected – with nothing more than a sigh, he reaches again for the whiskey.

(He's not entirely surprised, for all his contemplation, that she doesn't come back downstairs again.)

* * *

**-tbc-**

* * *

**AN: **Eep. Have some delicious melodrama, though hopefully there's the promise of more plot to go with it.

Some **notes**: Brussels really does hold yearly pornography awards. Oh België. The Kattenstoet is a Belgian festival dedicated to cats, centring mostly around a parade. _Proost _is Dutch, of course, for 'cheers' – the title chapter comes from a poem by Australian Margaret Curran ("Anzac Eve").

And for the reviewers! Let's all join hands in celebration of our sadly underloved ship, booo. **char-tomio:** I'm glad you seem to be enjoying my writing! I admit I'd been a bit rusty for a while, haha, but I hope I won't let you down! **JediMasterDarjaak: **Thank you for sticking with this fic as you have, and you speak my comedy language, my friend! The extended Cleese image made me laugh for longer than I care to admit. **Anonanon:** I was absolutely delighted to read your review. I try to be fair and celebratory to cultures I attempt portraying, but I have no personal connection to either Australia or Vietnam, so I wasn't sure how well I was doing on that front; I hope I can keep it up and not disappoint you.

Until next time! Hopefully not with such a monstrously long chapter OTL.


	5. cupid is a ragged urchin

**Names: **Erika = Liechtenstein; Roderich = Austria, Kasem = Thailand

* * *

**V: cupid is a ragged urchin**

* * *

Next morning, Arthur struggles through the horrific ordeal of having to brew his own tea.

He is indeed the sentimental type, but he can't say he misses the way Élise makes it for him because that's simply not true. She never seems to get it _right, _for his taste, and it comes as curious relief that he's at least not being cosmically punished through terrible beverages.

Brooding over the kitchen sink wouldn't suit him, anyway, but he hasn't seen Élise all morning.

She always rises before him, be it to wake the boys, or to prepare breakfast (and something with caffeine for Arthur, angel that she is). Today marks no break from routine; when he passed her door on the way downstairs, groggy and hastily dressed, he heard some definite movement behind it; she's awake, as per usual, but she hasn't emerged.

By all rights, he'd rather be in bed. He might have to clock in at the office within a mere hour or so, but he only got up early because he hadn't really slept. His lips had been too warm, his _libido_ had been working against him — and the worst part was, he'd been too busy prodding at his abdomen, debating whether or not he'd designate his new belly as pleasantly plump or fearfully fat.

Arthur feels oddly incensed at having to revert to old routines, sorting out Benjamin and Caleb in time for school by himself. He's still gathering his bearings when he begins sipping down his second mug, though his ploy to hide in the kitchen fails him when Benjamin traipses in.

"What do _you_ want?" Arthur snaps. In the grand scheme of things, it's one of the more affectionate things he's greeted either son with in the mornings.

"_Breakfast_," Benjamin replies, pressing his hands to his chest like he's incensed. "Most important meal of the day, _Dad_, like you always say."

"...Right. Yes, of course I do. Very good."

"What's up? You gonna try stopping me?"

Arthur answers first through a lax stare of disbelief. "Why would I stop you?"

"It's a violation of my human rights, if you do."

"Don't defy _me_ with the Geneva Convention," Arthur says, aligning the knot of his tie. He places his mug on the counter to begin seeking appropriate crockery, though he does go on to add, "Cornflakes aren't a human right."

"How do _you _know?"

"I have a bachelor of laws degree, insufferable brat – and where's your brother?"

His query falls in vain, because Benjamin is temporarily occupied with tackling a chair at the kitchen table. He triumphantly slams the cereal box down atop its surface when he manages to balance – parentally patient, Arthur simply watches with the lustre of someone unimpressed.

"What?" is all Ben gives, upon realising he's being watched.

"Where's your _brother_, I said."

"How should I know?"

"He's your – well, he's your brother. You share a room."

"Like I'd go into _his_ side."

"Absolutely flawless logic," Arthur says in monotone, and he hands down a bowl from the cupboard beside him.

His mind decides to drift when Benjamin snatches the bowl in question, lips pressed together in a thin, wordless line. It's of no detraction – Benjamin seems content with the death of conversation, rambling replaced with the clattering rustle of pouring cornflakes.

To his credit, Arthur does _try_ to resist; he nearly states her name a good few times, only managing to refrain by delivering a hefty bite to his lower lip. When he finds himself sore but still undeterred, he swallows a sigh, glancing back over his shoulder to afford himself this small weakness.

"Have you seen Élise yet, then?"

Benjamin looks up, his spoon raised halfway to his lips – though he hasn't finished his current mouthful. His response comes in the confused raise of a brow, prompting Arthur into pulling himself to full height.

"Élise," he repeats. "While we're on the topic of miscellaneous household residents, I might as well ask. Did she help you get dressed, or something of the like?"

Deciding the question calls for heavy concentration, Benjamin sticks out his tongue. Again Arthur waits, finding exhaustion to be an excellent source of endurance.

"Nah," Benjamin finally announces. "Didn't she wake you up?"

"She hadn't left her room, when I woke."

"Ah," says Benjamin, and then, "Still nah."

He tips back his head, depositing the spoonful of cereal into his gullet with one fell swoop. If it hadn't been for Ben's dedication to devouring, Arthur might attempt pushing the issue.

A pair of legs stroll casually through the doorway, a mass of dark grey wool writhing above them – the local school's uniform jumper. The proposed search for Caleb is thankfully rendered unnecessary as Caleb's head pops out, dazed, once the jumper's been tugged across a torso.

"I'm ready for school, Dad."

"I can see," Arthur replies, then nods towards the table currently dominated by Benjamin's messy eating. "Get something to eat while there's still food available."

Caleb ignores the command, opting instead to ask, "Is Élise still going to walk us there?"

"Hm?" Arthur tenses, all the same stating, "Yes, I would imagine so. She always does – and I need to set off for work, but why do you ask?"

"She's still in her room." Caleb's expectant gaze stays trained to his father's face, going on when he receives no response. "I knocked, but she told me to go away."

"I see," Arthur says, leaning back against the counter; he attempts to disguise his sudden curiosity with and _oh, _he can hardly distinguish his feathery heart from the true schoolboys within the room. "Did you see her?"

The boy shakes his head. "She didn't let me in."

_Bollocks_, Arthur thinks, though he knows better than to say it amongst impolite company. If only he could tell her, tell her that he doesn't want them to be uncomfortable, that he simply wishes to see her, but barging into her room may send off all the wrong sort of signals.

"Did you have a fall-out?"

Arthur looks up, forcing himself to meet Caleb's attention. Under-tens are never more terrifying than when they're being _insightful_, and even Benjamin's silenced his scoffing to listen.

"Excuse me?"

"You and Élise. Did you have a fight about somethin'?"

"What is there to fight about?" Arthur asks, bestowing a ridiculously false smile. It's better known as his _stop talking _face, not that Caleb takes the hint.

"Plenty of things, I guess. Adult things. Did you try to give her a hug and she cried?"

Still upon his chair, Benjamin lifts his spoon, attracting attention with a woeful sigh. "That's happened enough to me, Dad. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"_No_," Arthur snaps, through ground teeth. "No, I didn't – and what happens between myself and Élise isn't any of your business, either of you."

From his pockets, Caleb produces socks, wiggling his bare pink toes against the tiling. "We live here, too."

"Sit _down, _Caleb."

And Caleb does, claiming the seat opposite Benjamin. It's only so he can begin slipping his feet into those socks, glancing intermittently towards where Arthur's leant.

"Good boy-"

"I'm not done."

Arthur hides a sneer behind his mug. "You bloody well _are_ done."

"I'm not! _You're_ packing a sad and it looks like she is, too. Why else would she be avoiding us?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, and curtly, "but I can assure you, she's not avoiding us because no such quarrel took place. I'm perfectly fine, in fact, and it's just – women, isn't it? Taking hours to get ready in the morning."

Benjamin shakes his head, then states with wisdom beyond his years, "Ah. _Sheilas_."

"Élise doesn't," Caleb mutters, voice scarce. He says nothing more, fiddling with the gathering of material around his ankles.

Though it's a wreck of an argument, Arthur is uncomfortably aware of his heart thudding, mostly out of concern that Caleb may well be correct. From what's left of his tea, he tips back a particularly clumsy mouthful and finds it's like tar, seeping between his teeth to the pink rungs of his throat; just a ladder for what's nestling inside his chest, see?

He sets the mug down, just as distraction is finally awarded – the doorbell.

It's a tinny chime that had once been _Land of Hope and Glory, _but disuse has warped it, the house groaning in discontentment as that electronic whine creeps across the plaster. He's never thought to replace it; the Kirkland household does not often receive visitors.

Arthur spots Caleb staring into the hallway, wide-eyed, and the _doting _father hurries towards the hallway –early as it might be for guests, it's earlier still for Caleb's interrogations. A quick glance to the clock tells him he has about ten minutes left that he can actually spare lounging around within the home. At most, whoever's knocking could _try _displaying a shred of concern for the hour.

He curses beneath his breath as he unlocks the door, which is partly why he can only stare in horror at the sight that awaits him. A young girl, draped in the greys and reds of the same school uniform as his sons; she regards him like he's headlights in her rabbity manner.

She's blonde, but not like him. It glistens to white beneath the sunlight, her porcelain skin an unnerving canvas to such timorous eyes. Standing as she is, she doesn't seem to be breathing_, _her observation of him conducted in utmost silence. He does _recognise_ her and she can't be more than ten, so he deigns, merciful, to speak first.

"Hello," he says, measured. "May I help you with something?"

She lifts her hands like it's a chore, pressing her fingertips together. For such a young girl, she carries the gravity of a woman, tilting her head like she's exasperated from the sight of him.

"I am looking for he who lives here," she states, and her accent isn't English but he recognises it as something European. "May I see him?"

"_I _live here," Arthur says. "I'll go one better and tell you I own the place, in fact."

"You're not my friend."

"I should think not." He frowns, satisfying an inch below his ear. "As charming as the occasional lunatic might be, vacancies for those in my life are well and truly occupied, so may I ask if you're perhaps after my sons?"

"Not Benjamin," the girl is quick to insist. "He can be very... loud."

"Caleb then," Arthur says. His thoughts click, puzzle-piece climactic. "You must be – be – _oh_. You're Erika?"

A modest smile brightens her face, at least serving to make her seem less uneasy. "Yes! I am. Are you his father?"

"Caleb's?"

She merely offers a nod.

He's seen her before, not routinely enough to give her name a face. Caleb talks about her, and with more frequency than her appearances – that's how Arthur knows. Her house is somewhere nearby, so he can understand why someone as imposingly shy as she would find solace in Caleb's friendship, of all things.

"Well, yes," he says eventually, shuffling back to the door for her. "But I'm Benjamin's too."

Erika's steps are dainty, soundless things, her little black school-shoes squeaking their polish when she dutifully moves into the hallway. Without a hint of irony she angles her head, neat bob hairsprayed in place while she accosts him once more.

"In that case, I'm very sorry for your loss."

Arthur is painfully aware of himself staring, only because he's at a loss for words. He assume – or hopes, at least – that her grasp of English idioms is simply tentative, but she's begun pottering off to the kitchen by the time he feels able to speak.

"_Ew_," comes Benjamin's affable welcoming, as Erika peers around the door.

It's to be expected. Benjamin's never had the best reputation with girls – he has learnt the hard way that they do not generally enjoy receiving spiders down their cardigans.

"Be _nice_, Ben," Arthur calls. "One always looks out for a guest."

'Being nice' is above the boy, because Benjamin, in an exhibition of surprising flexibility, somersaults his way out from the kitchen just as Arthur begins re-approaching it. Arthur isn't too bothered, far more curious about the depths of Erika's intentions while he lingers just outside the room.

To think, his modest son might be more popular with the fairer sex than he.

"What're you doing here?" Caleb asks – Arthur's query exactly. "I didn't know you had my address."

"I have a favour to ask of you," Erika says, primly setting herself atop the chair Ben had been hogging. "I wanted to know if you would mind me walking to school with _you _today."

"How come?"

"My mother has been sick this week. She can't leave her bed, but she would prefer me not to go alone."

"_I_ don't care," Caleb announces, swinging his legs. "I mean, we're going the same way anyway. Though I think Ben might complain-"

"Forgive me," Erika says, "but I am not very concerned with what _Benjamin_ feels." Her earlier smile returns as she clarifies, "You're my friend. That's all."

"Then sure," Caleb says. He gives Arthur an almost challenging stare. "Erika can come with us, right, Dad?"

"I house no objections," he says, showcasing his best imitation of a casual shrug. As he fumbles along the counter for his car-keys, he checks the clock again; five minutes. "What about Élise? Should I try fetching her?"

Erika visibly stiffens, enthralled by Arthur wholly. "I do not mean to be rude-"

"You're not."

"Who is _Élise_?"

"She's, erm – she's our lodger."

"And what of her?" Erika places her hands on her knees. "Should I know her?"

"No, no," Arthur says, shaking his head. "Nothing like that. She enjoys taking the boys to school, that's all, but I can't imagine she'd protest at taking you, too, young miss."

"_Oh_," Erika says, as if finding the response acceptable. "Is she very old?"

Arthur poises his mouth to reply, but the only sound he emits is a gasp of spry surprise. There are arms descending around him, hands clasping over his chest, and he turns his head just enough to see who's pawing at him when Élise answers the question for herself.

"I am _very _old," she says, her gaze avoiding Arthur's while her chin rests resolutely atop his shoulder. She must know what she's doing because she arches herself, resting the soft weight of her breast against his back while she's adamant the children can't see it.

Erika certainly doesn't seem to find anything out of the ordinary, offering a giggle. Caleb, Caleb says absolutely nothing.

"You're not _very_ old!" Erika insists. "I thought you might be a grandmother."

"But you think I _am_ some sort of old?" Élise demands, but she doesn't mean it. Her hands gently gather the material of Arthur's shirt, and between that and her voice being so close to his ear, it's a struggle for him not to give a rather undignified shudder. "_Hemelen, hemelen_; how cruel these children can be!"

Erika hides her smile behind her hand, muffled in asking, "Might I be allowed to come with you to school?"

"Of course, child, of course! Arthur, may we speak?"

Baffled as he might be, he wants nothing more than to nod – but the burn of Caleb's wary stare prolongs the inevitable. The boy knows; he must know. He knows far too much of everything.

"We may," Arthur finally says, and he leaves Caleb to Erika's company while Élise leads him out to the hall.

Élise untangles herself from him to shut the door, and she sinks softly against it before springing to prehend him again. He doesn't know what she's playing at; he doesn't want to ask, letting her perform whatever queer actions she wishes.

"I'm sorry," she says. Gone is the cheer from mere seconds ago, her hands groping for his, and he opts to merely hear her speak. "Oh, Arthur; I'm as sorry as I've ever been. I couldn't bring myself to let you see me – but I've made up my mind, now. I think I've fixed it all and _ha_, here I am."

"Fixed what?" he asks. He stays stubbornly still. "There was nothing to fix. I drank a bit, for which I now have a mild headache as punishment-"

"No! No! I started everything. I'm at fault."

"It takes two to tango."

"I'm not much of a dancer, but _Arthur, _that's not what I mean and you know it. Look at you!" She swiftly strokes her finger down his nose, and gives a light giggle when he crinkles it once she's finished. "You are a silly man with a dreadful taste in ties, and you couldn't possibly defend yourself against me."

"That may be true," he concedes, struggling against a grin. "But – I admit, I'm baffled as to what you expect of me."

She bites her lip. He wants to brush it away, to kiss her there instead, but he knows he'll win no favours.

"It depends, Arthur," she says, soft. "What do _you _want from _me_?"

"Honesty," he replies, without having to dwell upon it. "All I want is for you to be truthful. If last night was a mistake, then say so. We'll forget about it and you won't feel the need to avoid me – how's that?"

She shakes her head, _violently_, which does make him consider the possibility she doesn't like his resolution. Her curls rise from her shoulders and strike her cheeks, only paused when his hands cup her face under impulse. To his surprise, she covers his hands with her own, smaller and hesitant though she's _smiling; _something hurts inside his chest to see it.

He could marvel at her, if he had the time. The office awaits, but it isn't preferable to how soft her skin is when he's dry from handling so much paper, how her kitten's features are the stuff of innocence.

"It's only childish if you intend to play around with me," he says, tone harsher than his hands. "I'm willing to forget, if need be – that doesn't seem to be of much appeal."

"No... No, it isn't." Élise presses into his palm, huffing up at him. "But you should go to work, Arthur. You're running late."

To which he hikes a brow, as much as it usually makes her giggle. She isn't laughing now, rapt entirely. "Aren't you going to answer me?"

"Tonight." Her fingers squirm, and his hands slide from her face in response. He doesn't want to, but he can tell when he's being directed and currently, he'd do anything he could just to please her. "Tonight, when you get home – we shall talk about it like we're solemn, and we'll be civil, and we'll come to a solemnly civil conclusion. The boys need their education and you need to – to do whatever it is your work entails."

He unravels from her, silently shifting. He can't explain why he doesn't believe her; he simply knows he can't. There's nothing to suggest deceit in her gaze, and she's so abruptly tense that he'd have more luck hearing Erika's breathing over hers, from where he's stood and the space between them.

"All right," he says. "Tonight, then, and without the wine."

(Useless as it sounds to his ears, she's happy with it – his goodbye for the day is a kiss to the cheek. It's something, he decides, while battling with his car's unreasonable lock, which more than makes up for the tea.)

* * *

London is _old – _its lingering age isn't always apparent, unless one knows where to look, but it's there. Every footstep taken is a carbon copy of thousands taken before; each exhausted worker swipes their hands back through the air of centuries when they stretch, stiffened, in their seats.

It seems every other person Arthur knows is a ruddy immigrant, past the bloke who works on the secretarial desk. Kasem might have parents from Bangkok, but he's lived in London long enough to know all the lingo. Arthur can only bemusedly nod when greeted with _'Grimy garms, innit?'_, and it claims to be English but to Arthur's ears, it might as well just be Thai. And he has tried, in passing, to be the quintessential Englishman the newspapers promote, content in suspicion and whimsical xenophobia. But now that his own _sons_ have begun adopting imitations of South Pacific accents, he struggles to ignore the beauty in it, the eclectic nonsense of human culture developed through time longer than London's.

Kasem is not who first meets Arthur, as he bustles through the office entrance, which comes as quite the shock. Every morning, he's grown to expect a workload forced into his unwilling hands, Kasem's dizzy smile promising doomsday to his writing-wrist. He still receives his daily doomsday, but only when he's ventured up the stairs (past a suspiciously vacant reception).

"Kasem has been struck down with _rhinorrhea_," Roderich Edelstein briskly declares, brandishing brightly-coloured folders in Arthur's general direction before he's had the time to so much as close the door behind him. "So have several of our other colleagues, as you'll notice from the state of our attendance."

Dazed, Arthur stupidly accepts the folders, gathering them under his arm while he surveys the office floor. The rectangle of a room contains a haphazard arrangement of mahogany desks and steel filing cabinets, with some chairs occupied and others fittingly not – all contained within the tall, window-happy walls of a whitewashed asylum.

Roderich certainly wouldn't be out of place in a mental institution. He has a keen sense of fashion, but no sense of humour.

"Thank you," Arthur says, doing nothing to disguise his ingratitude. "I assume I'm meant to alphabetise these, or something equally thrilling."

"You have to complete those drafts for _your_ client," Roderich snaps, folding his arms over his chest, "before preparing a course of negotiation for _my _one. I, meanwhile, will be covering the duties of three others because they've so rudely decided to become susceptible to viral infection."

Arthur takes on a grin, askew. "What would we do without you?"

"Fall behind by a good few years."

Roderich's accent is enough to give it away, but he's another immigrant. God knows why – prior to moving, he'd held a lucrative post in Vienna, and he's made no secret of his desire to be Mozart without the sexual deviance, or Freud minus the facial hair. Law is a stepping stone and Arthur, inconveniently stationed beside Roderich's desk, has become something of a mental-health case study.

"You were late," Roderich goes on, as Arthur attempts to sidestep him. "May I ask why?"

"You may indeed," Arthur replies, "but you won't get an answer. Are you going to let me sit down, man?"

"I am merely making friendly conversation." Roderich refuses to budge. "Not anything to do with your new nanny?"

"_Lodger_," Arthur says, far too quickly. "And no, no; it wasn't anything Élise did."

The haste in Arthur's speech only captures Roderich's attention, though he does concede to letting Arthur past. He slaps those brightly-coloured folders down on his desk, and when he turns to face Roderich again he finds, with mild discomfort, that the Austrian near enough has him pinned.

"That was a very cautious denial."

"What are you expecting to hear? That I shagged her before breakfast while thinking of my mother in stockings? Honestly, Roderich, psychology is all about the debauchery of its practitioners–"

"How rude." Roderich adjusts his spectacles, voice lowering to something almost inaudible above the office's general chatter. "_Did_ you think about your mother?"

"Nothing happened," Arthur retorts, "so I regret to state I didn't have the opportunity for it. How's your _wife_?"

"Sick." Roderich sniffs with high dudgeon, straightening up. "It's an epidemic of common cold."

"That's spring for you, old chap."

Erika, earlier, had said her mother was sick; Arthur briefly considers her role in seasonal panic. Erika herself best not have it – he doesn't want to end up catching something from Caleb, though it might exempt him from Roderich's sudden focus.

Arthur takes his seat without much grace, reaching for the pot of pens he's rather protective over. As he rummages through it for his favourite biro, he glances up, briefly, and regrets it, because Roderich is _still _standing in front of him, expectant.

"I'm not sure what you want from me," Arthur says, brandishing a pen like it'll keep the peculiar man at bay. "If you're going to ask for me to cover your consultancy for the day, you can _stuff it_."

"You've been drinking, I take it."

"Excuse me?"

"You only refuse to cover consultancy when you've been _drinking_." Roderich presses his hands flat to Arthur's desk, narrowing his eyes for inspection. "Not this morning, I hope?"

In response to the advance, Arthur leans back, fiddling with the pen-top. "I always douse my cornflakes in liquor."

"Last night, then. Symptoms?"

"Just a throbbing skull this time," Arthur says – he knows better than to attempt outright denial. "It could be because the city traffic is always terrible, or because I'm currently being pestered by the office's finest amateur psychoanalyst. Either way, I'm not really in the mood for hearing the woeful tales of potential divorcées."

He has a woeful tale of his own, after all, though Roderich doesn't make the connection.

"Neither am I, though I have one due before lunch. It's surprisingly draining."

"For a _therapist_, you really need to work on your empathy."

"I," Roderich declares, with unwarranted indignation, "am a pianist, first and foremost. This sort of thing is simply a hobby."

Arthur bites his pen, grinning around the edges of it. "You're a _solicitor,_ first and foremost."

"Easy employment."

"Speak for yourself," Arthur scoffs, with a huff of amusement after. "It's the only career I can think of where writing an angry letter that's a bit _too _angry constitutes a monumental fuck-up."

"_Language_."

"Piss off, Roderich. Headache, remember?" He discards his stationary and picks up the nearest folder, playing with the notion of actually opening it. "In any case, I'm not going to give you much worthwhile insight – go ask the coffee-machine how being handled so often makes it _feel_."

Roderich's movements are always brisk, but he's brisker now, hiding his hands across his lithesome back. "How lowly you think of my assistance, Kirkland."

"When I begin believing I'm a chicken, I'll call you." Arthur flashes Roderich a more genuine smile, though his voice is spiralling mockery while he adds, "_Doctor, doctor_, I think I'm a pair of curtains–"

"Ever the comedian," Roderich states, without fervour. It's his own fault, really; he's a terrible gossip but he passes it off as an _interest in the human mind. _Arthur's unfortunate decision to mention Élise in passing, one day, ensured Roderich's ongoing interest in the business of Arthur's genitals – which is worrying, for a co-worker. So far, he's chosen not to report Roderich for sexual harassment.

Roderich doesn't move from where he's looming, but he doesn't speak, either. Arthur accepts a false sense of security, allowing himself to foolishly believe Roderich's finished his minor interrogation, and it genuinely jolts him when Roderich speaks again.

"You've put on weight."

Arthur grimaces, despite being fairly certain Roderich and Lan aren't acquainted. "So I've been told."

"Oh, have you? I don't mention it negatively."

"I'm almost the size of a _house_," Arthur says, because there's entertainment to be had from carrying the topic. "I'll have to look into tailors, soon – fancy giving me the number for yours? Never fear; I shan't copy your signature wardrobe of purple-_everything_."

"My wife is a seamstress," Roderich replies, "but I know you're trying to bother me. It's merely uplifting to see you resembling less of a skeleton. You've been smiling more. Too _much_."

Arthur rests forward on his elbows. He might as well humour the poor sod, and he offers, as tantalisingly as he can, "It's because Élise has been looking after me."

As expected, Roderich leaps on the suggestion like a whippet. "She's been mothering you, has she? Or did your mother not give you a richer diet?"

Preventing a laugh proves difficult, so Arthur lifts a folder to hide his face. "I'm going to get _work_ done now, Roderich."

"That's a first."

"Bastard!"

"Would you like my opinion?"

Arthur lowers the folder, enough to set his eyes over the top of it. "Not really, but you're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?"

"Quite right." Roderich's chuckle is a smug, grumbling noise, his throat barely bobbing while he makes it. "I think your boys will have noticed the same changes I have, and I think they're going to see the source of those changes as a replacement that might do them good, too. You'd do well to pursue it – and report back to me afterwards, naturally, but we can discuss that later."

"A replacement?" Arthur furrows his brow. "A replacement for what?"

"Their _mother_, of course."

Roderich is evidently proud of himself, and he doesn't notice the sink in Arthur's stomach. But it's internal, so how could he? There's no way to open someone up, to watch their slithering soul sink fast into trepidation.

He should have considered this before.

"Are you done?" Arthur asks, passionless. One folder gets stacked onto its neighbour, and those onto the third one beside it.

For all his persistence, Roderich knows better than to follow a painful lead. Maybe he only offers the courtesy because he'd rather be charging for actual therapy, but he gives Arthur a pitying look and says, resolute, "I'm done."

* * *

He doesn't miss her.

He used to; he used to stock grapes in the fridge because she loved them, though he never did. He used to buy bottled soap with the scent of her lavender, despite knowing it would be far more practical to buy cheap, odourless blocks. He lived his life, for weeks after, according to how _she'd_ want him to live it, but he knew even then she wasn't going to come back.

Some nights, he'd scream into his pillow, gripping the fabric until his knuckles cracked because he didn't dare wake the boys, expelling white noise from his head through the mouth she hadn't kissed. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to, and heartbreak felt like lunacy; he welcomed it. Even Roderich didn't bother analysing him, in those blinding months of utter confusion.

They have his eyes – he'd never really noticed it, until the night she left. Her sons, _their_ sons, watched him with confused pale green, himself as a lad staring back at him through decades. He, or two carbon copies of what he'd been, found disappointment in what he'd done, in what he'd failed to do. Perhaps they didn't blame him but it felt like it, when he was the only one still around to receive any degree of scrutiny.

It was years ago. He got better.

He could say Élise looks like his wife did; not really, but they have the same upturned nose. It's a mystery what his démodé woman looks like now, but Élise is different. He _knows_ she's different, because unlike his wife – even when he'd thought things were fine (if stale, if tender) – he looks forward to seeing her stood in his doorway, his boys clutching limply at her dress.

* * *

Caleb may have avoided the cold, but Benjamin brought something else home.

Above his head, he waves the letter as one would a flag, prideful and prosperous in greeting his father home. Even Lan found herself bombarded with an almost victorious speech from across the garden wall, chronicling Benjamin's explanation for how he achieved his glorious milestone – his very first detention.

He doesn't actually have to attend it; he's in primary school, so he can't really be kept back after hours. Arthur would have to give written permission, something Benjamin feverishly began begging him _not_ to do the moment he stepped out from his car. It's the story of _why _he gained it that's more heated on his tongue.

"Some boys were making fun of Erika," Benjamin declares, when Arthur stupidly enquires. "For turning up with me an' Cal. So I found a big worm, right? Really long. And I shoved it down this one kid's trousers."

It's a heart-warming tale. Caleb's shrug seems to confirm its authenticity.

"Did you apologise?" Arthur says, as he toes off his second shoe.

"To who? Erika?"

"No, no. The lad whose received his comeuppance. _Worm-boy_."

"Like Hell would I say sorry to _him_!" Benjamin declares, placing his hands on his hips. "Hey, what does that mean?"

"Comeuppance?" Arthur parrots. "Poetic justice. You know."

The expression Benjamin assumes is blank enough to indicate he doesn't know, so Arthur abandons the mission. He's more attracted to the odd sounds emanating from the living room, a screeching s_crape-scrape-scrape _from disgruntled furniture.

"Élise," Caleb says, when he notes Arthur looking. "She's rearranging the lounge."

Arthur can only frown. "Might I ask why?"

Again Caleb shrugs, and he's happy with the help he's given because he seizes Benjamin by the arm. Pocketing the detention letter, Benjamin scowls as though to protest.

"Whaddya want, _mate_?"

"We've got a match to complete, remember?" Caleb says. "You're just worried I'll jump higher than you."

Benjamin scoffs, then attempts tugging his arm away. "We both know I'm _way_ better with the trampoline than you are."

"Prove it."

"It's true! You're just wasting your own time – I got a _detention. _Don't mess with me."

"Scaredy-cat! Scaredy-cat!"

It's uncharacteristic; like most, Caleb doesn't enjoy proposing contests he definitely won't win. But he seems adamant in leading Benjamin away, and Arthur isn't gullible enough to think it's not something to do with leaving their father near Élise, the promising 'replacement' – he makes a mental note to leave Roderich off the Christmas card list this year.

Never one to back down from an affaire d'honneur, Benjamin lets his resolve to disperse. He follows Caleb when Caleb breaks into a run, leaving Arthur to set his shoes by the doormat and _groan_.

The noise remains. Scrape, scrape. Élise can't have heard the conversation over whatever it is she's doing, so he allows himself as much time as he needs; by the time he's ready to make his glorious entrance, he's spent more time than he'd like to admit simply preparing himself for seeing her.

"Hello," he hails, though he'd rather be asking what on Earth she thinks he's doing to his post-modern arrangement of furniture. His sofas and armchairs had been in an L-shape around the coffee table, but now they're in some sort of semicircle that defies the purpose of mindlessly flopping in front of whatever's on the BBC every evening.

She's behind the television itself, her elbows atop it while she considers where to move it. Sorely limited in where she could actually plug the damn thing, she finds Arthur to be a far more interesting point of focus.

"Hello!" she says, and she excitedly claps her hands together. "I was waiting for you – I got bored."

"So I can tell."

"_Oh_." Her face falls, eyes scanning his face. "You don't like it?"

"I don't _mind_ it. I just think, perhaps, it's about time we found you a hobby."

She tips back her head and laughs, which he takes to be a positive enough sign. He sheathes his hands with his pockets, hesitantly stepping towards her. Her arm outstretches, reaching for him; he's not sure what she's asking for so he simply offers her his hand.

"What sort of hobby," says she, as she wraps her fingers around his, "would you recommend for me, Mr. Kirkland?"

He smiles. It's still restrained – she might try snapping his thumbs off, if he says the wrong thing – but he's more comfortable than he had been this morning. She's had the whole day to mull him over, hasn't she? She's had hour upon hour to while away with thoughts of what she _wants, _how she's going to _fix _everything, while he's been at a desk with inadequate air conditioning beside a blathering Austrian, doing his best to simply avoid daydreaming of her.

"Definitely not amateur psychology," he says, finally, and he gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "I would request, however, that you stop concealing yourself away behind the television."

"_Oh_? Do you like it positioned here?"

"Well, yes, I suppose – but I want to see you, too, pretty thing."

He gives her no time to protest, his grip on her hand pulling her flush from behind the box and towards him instead. She gasps, body instantly leaning up against his own while she seeks balance, and the burn settling across her cheeks convinces him he made the right decision.

Her arms slide, up, beneath his own, and she clutches at his shoulders while he settles his hands over the small of her back. He mentally traces her shape, the design of her feminine figure; his thoughts would most definitely be of interest to Freud but he struggles to care, mapping the curve of supple hips pressed up against his own. She's had to rise onto tiptoes and he thinks, with some amusement, how utterly sweet she is. How warm her weight is against him, how softly she breathes through his shirt.

When she makes no indication of wishing to speak, he presses one hand to the back of her head, slowly stroking along the mass of silky blonde. He wraps ringlets of it around his fingers, earning a gentle sigh from her lips instead, and when he tires of a strand he tucks it back behind her ears, seeking out another. She's happy enough for him to continue, if the way her hands softly flex over his back means anything. Kneading his shirt, her back lightly arches, nose nuzzling impatiently against his shoulder. She rests there a moment more, voice a whisper when it rises.

"I'll bet I can jump higher than you on the trampoline."

His hand stops its motion, fingers splaying through her hair. She tilts back her head, her lazy smile perfect for her mellow eyes.

"Don't tell me you mean to test that, madam. I'm not the sort of man who uses those affordable death-traps."

"But I _do_ mean to test it, dear sir. I have been waiting all day to challenge you; would you deny me?"

"I'd never deny you anything," he replies, "but I'm quite enjoying being able to hold you without you rushing off on me."

"_Ooh_." Her arms drop, enveloping his waist instead, while she resumes pressing her face to his torso. "You - surprised me, last night, but I'm not surprised _now_. You're sober, aren't you?"

He snorts. "I'd _like _to drink at work, but it's not yet legal."

"Then you _do _like me."

"We've already discussed this, miss," he hums, musing. "It's impossible to dislike you – any part of you."

And with that, he boldly delivers an inelegant pat to her arse.

She hops away from him, emitting a yelp, though her grin speaks tomes of its own. "_Sir_! That's it. You really _will _have to jump for me now."

"Oh, _Élise_."

"Don't 'Élise' me," she says, slender fingers grasping for his wrists. She lowers her voice, just as she measures her smile. "The boys were talking about playing games with you – that you never have the time, anymore. I think they would appreciate it, too."

To think, his boys actually wish to spend time with him. And he's _happy; _he's undeniably, irrevocably happy, because for once he doesn't have the overhanging instinct that something, in some way, is going to go horribly wrong. How could it?

She hasn't defined it – what she wants from him, what he is to her. But he doesn't care. He doesn't yet need to know, and if she wishes to seek his affection then he'll give it because if anyone deserves it, it's her. He wants to learn her secrets while he plays with her hair, he wants to hear about her day with his arms around her waist.

And so to now, and her expectant face, he responds by hauling her arms into the air, the notion moving his body before his thoughts. He poises her like he intends to take her waltzing, something she again finds no time for resisting, and she laughs her lyrical laugh while he dances her out to the garden.

She laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

* * *

It comes as no surprise when Arthur loses the bet, despite how much he insists he was put off by Benjamin throwing rugby balls at him.

He's a joke over the dinner table, and a joke over the TV programmes they curl up across newly-arranged furniture for – but he finds himself _very_ welcome within Élise's room, once his sons have long been put to bed.

The spawn in question both snore like a rhinoceros would, indication enough they won't be bothered any time soon. If asked why he thought to knock, he wouldn't be able to say. She'd been reading a book, sprawled out across the blue of guest-room bedsheets, and he, in the manner of one teenaged lover sneaking out for another, offered a lopsided grin around the doorway when she'd softly called, _come in._

Heaven knows why she let him in at all, but he's kissing her in the manner of a teenager, too.

Her lips are a smile against his, hands trailing in all sorts of cryptic patterns across his back while her knees hug his sides, his body hovering, quite smugly, between her legs. But there's no disrobing here; he's far too tired for anything other than mapping her mouth, now she's finally allowing him to. He's ridiculously grateful.

His tongue shudders with hers, as her hips give a little leap. She swallows down the snicker he makes and writes nonsense over his spine, the secrets he'd wanted to hear all present over the pads of her fingertips. He licks across her teeth, lets her drag them across his bottom lip. He's beginning to earn a grasp of what Élise likes, because she tires eventually of kissing and draws her head away. She presents her neck to him, as she'd done the night before, her breathless little smile coy with her silent command.

Arthur's happy to yield. He swaps the taste of her teeth for the taste of her pulse, burying his face against her neck to lap along the skin there. It earns him the most _heavenly _little moan, closer to a mewl while she tries to keep herself quiet. Her hands swiftly redistribute, one in his hair while she bites down on the other; he feels her do so when her jaw grinds to clenching.

She begins rocking her hips lightly against his, bucking and relaxing, alternately granting him her neck or shying it away from him. He refuses to let her; he pins her groping arm with one hand while the other catches her locks, pushing her head – only gently – away enough for him to suck at her throat as he wishes.

Much as he'd like to tease her, to pull away and admire the blush he knows to be present, he doesn't dare. Biting her hand isn't enough for her, when he ghosts his mouth along her throat. She whines, softly, bunching the blankets nearest her hip, stroking her way through his hair faster and faster with every move he makes that earns her fancy.

"_Damn_," she says, and she pants out a giggle, tensing her throat to the path of his mouth. His eyes flicker to what they can find of her face, while he lifts his head enough to finally examine her.

When he places his hands either side of her head to support himself, she _pouts. _He's never seen her make such a face before but it's oddly exciting, and her arms shift to cover her chest though she's still decidedly clothed.

"Oh, Mr. _Kirkland_," she breathes, in a mocking caricature of some blue-movie seductress. "What would the _neighbours_ think?"

He hums a low note, smiling. "They'd all be terribly jealous."

"Even Lan?"

"_Especially_ Lan, if my suspicions are correct – but let's not talk about her in the bedroom."

Élise laughs, her arms snaking over his middle. "Is that what you're after?"

"No, no." He leans down, pressing the lightest kiss to her forehead. "I just wanted to see if you'd let me get away with kissing you goodnight. A success, too, I should think."

"In that case," she states, running her knuckles over the lower notches of his spine, "I want a goodnight kiss. A _proper_ one."

He obliges, hands cupping her face as he straddles her, long enough to simply brush his lips over hers. He's not expecting anything more to come of it but she has other ideas, fluttering the tip of her tongue through the warmth of her mouth.

And she nips him. It _bleeds_.

Arthur quickly tugs his head away, muffling a yelp against his sleeve. It strikes him, then, that he's pressing a white shirt against red blood, but the look of horror creeping over her countenance commands his full attention.

"Goodness, Arthur, goodness!" she cries, covering her mouth. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean to! I don't know why I _did_!"

"It's all right," he says, muffled. He pushes himself away from her, swinging his legs over the side of the bed while his thumb dabs at his war-wound. "It's all right, it's fine; at least I know you're a biter."

He means it as a joke, but she seems to take it seriously. "I don't bite _important_ things."

"I'm a divorced man with children, woman; see how vulgar your suggestions are."

Élise sits up, then, crawling to kneel behind him. Unprompted, her hands rest on his shoulders, slowly rubbing along the slope of them while she rests her cheek on his hair.

"I'm sorry," she says again.

He chuckles, muttering, "You could've just told me if you didn't like it."

"Oh, but I _do _like it," she breathes, her impromptu massage growing unbearably slow. "I do – and I'll do it properly tomorrow, I promise. I want a kiss goodnight every time I go to sleep."

A thought enters his head, then bursts from his throat before he can stop it. "I booked time off today."

She pauses. "Time off?"

"You know, time off work. I think I sold my soul to a colleague in the process-" (bloody Roderich) "-but I've managed to ensure I'll be able to spend near an entire two weeks on the trampoline with you, if that's what you'd prefer."

As much as he doesn't want to, he pushes himself to his feet; if he's going to be in any state for the office tomorrow he'll have to send himself to bed. She neatly crosses her legs, nodding her understanding.

"...Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Do – do you – no." She ceases holding his gaze, shaking her head. "No, no; it's silly."

"Tell me. I'd never mock you over anything."

"It's just – just something that doesn't matter, really, but I'd like to _know_." She bites her lip (though not enough to slice it). "Do you – do you have _other_ women? Do you do this with many?"

He stares at her. It's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, and he briefly considers going back on his promise not to mock before vowing, wordlessly, to extend her concerns proper courtesy.

"Do I _look _like I have other women?" he asks, deadpan. "It's me who should be concerned about the mile-long queue of other men you're inevitably hiding from me."

Weak though it is, she smiles at him. "I don't know anyone, not in _this_ city. You're the only one readily available."

"You make me feel so special."

"Don't I?" That smile expands to a sunny grin, like she's perfectly content once more. "I – I don't think you'll mind, but I'd still like to go... slowly. Very slowly. We must be snails, Arthur, crawling all over each other, because I don't want to make a mess of things if I have to be _living_ here – you understand, don't you?"

He doesn't like it, but he does at least empathise. He's not the one with something to lose, aside from his wavering pride, which is perhaps why he feels obligated to treat her as snails would regardless. She'd said she was lonely – well, he's lonely, too. Between his work and home, his social life extends to a neighbour and now, to her. He could keep her company; she could warm his bed and he'd warm her in turn, enchanted by the notion of winding himself around someone willing on the coldest nights.

But not yet. He's capable of waiting, so he simply says, "I'd expected it." He grips the door handle, pausing before adding, from his own wealth of curiosity, "Slow enough not to tell the boys?"

"If that's all right."

"It's fine," he says. "But they'll deduce it eventually."

From the way he'd been acting, Caleb might already, but _eventually _will do. She sees him off with an exaggerated wave, and the taste of his own blood stays, mocking, still trickling against his tongue.

* * *

**-tbc-**

* * *

**Postscript**: I am dreadfully sorry for the speed of this update; I try to churn one out weekly, but unforeseen commitments have begun preventing me from writing as often. I'll hopefully get another chapter out this month, but order shall definitely resume in the new year.

This... has been a rather raunchy chapter. But it'll calm down next time, haha. "Grimy garms, innit?" is supposedly 'Londoner' for "Fashionable clothing, right". Freud!Austria amuses me more than it should, so I couldn't resist including him as the obligatory zany co-worker. If you're that way inclined, it may be AusHun going on when he mentions his wife, though Freud did seem to have an obsession with maternal incest! There's a reason for Erika preferring Caleb; IRL, Liechtenstein has an embassy in New Zealand, but none in Australia. They have good relations all round, however. '_Hemelen_' is Dutch for 'Heavens', and the chapter title this time comes from a poem by Kiwi writer, A. R. D. Fairburn ("_Cupid_").

Who is the ragged urchin? Probably Caleb. He apparently ships it.


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